


Bad for Business

by Witchy_Willow



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-18 15:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14855006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchy_Willow/pseuds/Witchy_Willow
Summary: Who knew that Monroe's humble business could be so greatly impacted just by knowing a Grimm?  And feeding a Grimm?  Helping a Grimm?  Letting one move in with you?





	1. Atmos

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For Anon at Grimm Kink who came up with this idea. I loved it instantly. Sadly, with me being me an’ all, there was no way I could reply to this brilliant prompt in time. I don’t normally fill prompts (since I work at my own frustratingly slow pace) but I do hope whoever Anon is likes it. I tried my level best. I don’t know much about horology but my ability to Google works just fine. That and I’ve watched enough Pawn Stars to know what is rare in the clock world. Death clock anyone? 
> 
> To give credit where credit is due, this is the prompt:
> 
> Nick Looses Clock Commissions: Five Times Nick unintentionally and probably quite accidentally looses Monroe his commission on a clock, and one time he doesn't (potentially gains him one?). Whether or not any of this happened before he moved in with Monroe is at the writer's discretion. I think I'd like at least some of it to happen afterwards though. Also, while I certainly want Nick to know that it has happened by the end of the fic, he doesn't necessarily have to known at the beginning. It doesn't necessarily need to be 5 time fic, but the formula would work well for this, I think.
> 
> As always, I own nothing. All spellings for Wesen names (with the exception of my own creations) are obtained from the NBC website. If you see a glaring error – grammatical or otherwise – please let me know. I work without a beta.
> 
> I found this hidden away in my folder!

“Are you su… uh huh, okay. I’m at… you, 418 SW Hamilton Street. You c… oh no, there’s always plenty of parking. It’s a residential add…” Unseen by his customer, Monroe’s head bobbed in agreement as his sentence was cut off once more over the cellular connection as the woman on the other end rapid fired a few more directional questions. “Uh huh, I’ll see you shortly.”

Tapping the bright red bar to end the call on his iPhone, Monroe slid the slim phone into his shirt pocket as he did a quick survey of his home. As unusual as it was, he was a tidy bachelor lacking the dusty shelves, dirty clothing strewn over the floor, and last night dishes still on the coffee table. His floors gleamed from a fresh polish that held the scent of lemon, all of his clocks and knick-knacks were dust bunny free, and the only tell-tale sign of breakfast was a few crumbs on the counter from a blueberry scone he put down to answer the phone call. Brushing the crumbs into the sink and finishing off the last bit scone, Monroe topped off his coffee cup from the French Press still steaming beside the kitchen window. 

His client was due to arrive shortly. She wasn’t too far away and despite Monroe’s assertions that he could have come to her his client thought otherwise. The saying that the customer’s always right was a bitch when you weren’t looking. Monroe operated his clock repair business out of his home, but most clients didn’t visit. He shipped most of his commissions and the few that were in town Monroe tried to go to them. It was a policy that worked out most of the time. With his home presentable to his satisfaction, Monroe ran through a mental quick list of things he would need to check. The client, Jillian – don’t you dare call me Ms. Tucker – had mentioned that she had acquired an Atmos clock. Those didn’t come up often. They were the closest thing to a perpetual motion clock that anyone has ever made. Atmos clocks were a thing of engineering beauty, but notoriously testy. A bump to the table, an overly ambitious maid, or even moving it across the room could make the pressure change and cause the clock to stop functioning. 

They were the epitome of set in place timekeeping. 

Another reason why Monroe had wanted to go to her home. He’d have to explain that once the repair was completed.

Sipping on the Sumatran blend he’d acquired the other day, Monroe prepped his work space for the piece. This would be a very sensitive but exciting clock to work on. He only hoped he had the parts if the Atmos needed anything. It could take quite a bit of time to locate and buy Atmos parts; even with his supplier.

A cherry red Nissan pulled up outside of his house. It was exactly as Jillian described – a hot red bullet on wheels with some added feminine flare if the “blinged out” license plate cover was any indication. The driver, Jillian he presumed, hopped out of the car and went to her trunk. The trendy young, slender woman walked quickly enough to bounce as she popped the trunk latch open but stopped in mid-movement. She stared at the house as if frozen in time with her hand resting on the trunk lid. The only evidence that such an outlandish event hadn’t occurred was the light swinging of her purse hanging from her other arm. She slowly came back to life as her mouth made a small “O” of horror and her eyes widened at some stunning recognition. 

Watching her through his front window, Monroe carefully set down the coffee cup on the work bench to lean closer to the pane. He’d seen some odd things in his life and, while this was certainly not the strangest, it was still quite disconcerting. The strangest involved some homemade moonshine, a solstice festival, and… well some things are better left alone. A more recent event still had the hairs on head standing on end. It was yesterday that a Grimm – a freakin’ Grimm – popped out of the park across the street.

Jillian’s brief stint as a statue came to an abrupt end with a flurry of movement. She tossed her long chestnut hair over her shoulder as she whipped her head around to look at the park across the street and back to Monroe’s house. Her carefully flattened hair frizzed as she jerked her head back and forth to stare at the two locations. He tried to think if he’d left anything in yard, but to the best of his recollection it was as tidy as his home. And Monroe’s last check of the front yard was this morning around 4 AM to renew his territory before Pilates. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never seen a customer just stare at his home before. It was as if his bubbly customer was suddenly hit by something straight out of the Exorcist. Monroe hesitated to go outside. He was reluctant to leave the window as if it would break some spell. She looked spooked as she wildly patted down her clothes before realizing that her phone was in her purse.

Concern for her won out, as Monroe surrendered his vigil at the window and moved through his front door to his front porch. In that brief span of time, Jillian’s fixation on the house had moved to her phone as she pointedly tapped the device making crisp clicks with her glossy red nails. Her brow furrowed as her head rose up to take in the view of Monroe standing on his porch with accusing eyes. Holding up the phone to perform a side by side comparison before swiping her finger across the phone’s face to execute another comparison. Her mouth twisted into distaste as if she had just swallowed a fly. Lowering the device, she slid the phone back into her purse and slammed the trunk lid down hard. 

It was like a gunshot went off. A ringing finality that sent Monroe into action as if it was a starter’s pistol. Jillian’s fading demeanor translated into her pace as the once bouncy, brisk walk fell into the hurried pace of a New Yorker late to a business meeting. She yanked open the driver’s side door as Monroe reach the walkway. It felt stupid and downright silly, but Monroe stopped halfway to shout at Jillian. He was beginning to fear the she would leave without an explanation or give him a chance to correct whatever he had done to offend her so greatly. “Ms. – er – Jillian? Is something wrong?”

The woman straightened from her attempt to climb into her car and simply leave. Once her head was visible above the car’s dome, she hissed, “Don’t call me that!” 

The sudden thought that she’d been hit by something from the Exorcist held new appeal. The voice certainly matched Reagan in a fugue state. “I-I don’t…”

“You disgust me.”

Now Monroe dealt with all sorts of weird. Weird was rather normal for him. He peed in his yard to mark his territory. The color red was a sultry, violent invitation he had learned to turn down. He had a private war with his local post office because the Bauerschweine that ran the place like to make the Blutbad suffer. And if there ever was a place that could make you wait for hours, legitimately, it was the post office. And just the other day a Grimm cop had broken into his house screaming about a little girl. Popping out if the wooded park like a horror movie villain and attacking him in his own home. But Jillian? This was a shade over weird that Monroe didn’t understand, “I… Please if there’s…”

“Don’t come near me, you monster. I saw the news report.” She ducked to retrieve the phone and held up the device as if it was the bloody knife at his murder trial.

“Report?”

“Yes,” she sneered letting venom drip into her words and elongating the s, “you kidnapped that sweet little girl and doing God’s knows what to her! Like hell I’d hire you, pervert. I don’t even want to be near you!”

So that was it. 

His personal nightmare come to life was now bleeding into his business. Monroe had known since he was a pup that Grimms were trouble, but he’d always figured that any run in with one would result in someone losing their head. He’d never thought that one would just appear from the park across the street, charge at Monroe in his front yard, and then call in his cop buddies to toss Monroe’s house while they left him handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser. Everything up to the cop buddies made sense. Grimms killed Wesen, but they especially slaughtered Blutbaden. Not that it was completely unjustified. They were nicknamed the “Big Bad Wolf” for a reason. 

But that.

That was a misunderstanding. 

Monroe was Wieder. It was a complete different church of thought. He didn’t stalk people. He didn’t hunt people. He lived by a strict routine that regimented his days and ate only the best vegetarian meals. No people. It was how he was able to keep from simply lunging at Jillian for having a stupid, bright red car and nails. “Please. That was a mis…”

“A misunderstanding? Please. The cops don’t search your house for a misunderstanding, pervert.”

Um, yeah, they do. They also tramp all over polish wood floors and clean carpet in dirty boots. They knock over precious heirlooms without a care and leave ever single drawer and cupboard in the house open. But that was neither here nor there. Jillian wasn’t willing to rationally communicate, “Wai…”

Jillian slide into her driver’s seat and slammed the car door with all the force she’d used on the trunk lid. It was a wonder that the car was in such great shape without a single dent or ding. The engine revved with all the force a four cylinder could muster as she peeled out leaving dark black marks on the street.

If all the shouting hadn’t alerted the neighbors that little display certainly did. They were starting to come outside in various states of dress one curious head at a time. It as if the world was closing in on Monroe as the retired teacher next door peered around the aspen tree that divided their properties in her robe and slippers in wide eyed wonder. The divorced accountant a few doors over was standing on the curb with his dress shirt half buttoned and his belt undone leaning out as if hailing a cab. A few kids in the area were clutching their backpacks as they stood for the bus stop at the end of the curb. One cautious mother moved to hover over of them until the bus arrived.

A monster.

He’d been one, but was now reformed. 

It didn’t matter.

More and more ignorant humans poured out of their homes to stop and stare. The world closed in far too quickly sealing him under an invisible glass with the label “monster” plastered on its stand. It wasn’t so much the lost commission and the lost opportunity to work on an Atmos that had him scurrying inside to hide. Hiding from those prying eyes that accused him silently.

The terror of trial by public opinion. 

All because of that stupid Grimm. He just had to show up like a nightmare turned real to charge at Monroe from across the street to tackle him in his own house. Screaming at the innocent Blutbad to tell him where the girl was. Then search Monroe’s entire house with no legal basis whatsoever. Okay, so a Blutbad was an obvious choice for a missing little girl last seen wearing a red coat, but wasn’t that a bit formulaic? Talk about species profiling. Never mind a violation of his constitutional rights.

Misunderstanding or not, yesterday’s fiasco was growing into a problem. Monroe could wish that it would all go away and he could go back to hiding in his solitary world, but it wouldn’t make it real. And this was very real. Pacing his living room, Monroe fretting about his new circumstances. On one hand there was a Grimm in Portland. On the other he was beginning to fear the collapse of his business – locally at least. 

Maybe it was time to move again. He didn’t want to. Portland was his home and he loved his house. But if… Monroe’s nervousness ceased as a thin, weak, but all too familiar scent teased his nose and grabbed his attention. It beckoned him to the window. The faint odor of rich copper revived memories of warm, red, viscous fluid flowing from a freshly bitten wound. Instinct could be repressed but the smell triggered his salivary glands just the same.

Somewhere nearby was a killer and possibly the very kidnapper Monroe was accused of being.

Oh, and his mail was early.


	2. Hamilton Railroad Pocket Watch

Monroe sighed. 

It was a heavy sigh born from deep within his chest as tried to calm Mrs. Ellen Jassenski. The petit, middle aged woman was darting between three steps inside Monroe’s house and three steps onto Monroe’s porch babbling incessantly. Her in vogue First Lady haircut swung short strawberry blonde hair over her face several times causing a minor panic attack. Each time the hair obscured her vision, she gained a step. It had happened three times.

“I-I did… and who would… you’re… he…” She darted back out of Monroe’s door, hair swinging into her face, and she gained a step. She could now walk all the way to Monroe’s porch steps. 

“Mrs. Jassenski, I know it’s – well it’s a lot, but I’m sure…”

But Monroe would never get to finish that thought, “A lot! A lot indeed. I mean… but there to see… I can’t…” She looked to the small pocket watch in her hand running a careful index finger over the tarnished gold case. Handling the item as the precious heirloom it was.

Monroe had only seen the watch for all of 5 seconds before everything went horribly wrong. Ellen was a Kleinlautvogel. And that really explained it all. She was far from her flock which mostly resided in the residential district of Beaumont-Wilshire. To get here she had to cross the Willamette. The journey could have only lasted a mere 15 or 20 minutes, but Monroe was willing to bet that this was the longest trip she’d taken in a while. Probably only treks to the grocery store and the kid’s high school racked up her mileage.

When she had first called Monroe, she was eager to get the 1914 Hamilton pocket watch cleaned and repaired. She had recalled family history and stories associated with the piece for so many hours that Monroe had briefly – briefly – considered a cordless telephone. Another part of him was glad that she’d called the landline instead of his cell phone even with his unlimited talk plan. He sat in his kitchen playing with the cord as the marathon call progressed and interjecting questions about the piece when Ellen’s unbelievably informed family history had a narrative pause. From what he had gathered, the watch hadn’t been cleaned since 1920, but had received an abundance of oil. Moreover, given Ellen’s complaint of the piece keeping time slowly, there was a chance that it probably was in need of a new, adjusted or fixed hairspring. Luckily, Monroe had the parts if it came to that. Hamilton railroad pocket watches were very popular. 

The day of her appointment came and she arrived on schedule, but heisted at the door. The innocent stained glass wolf set into Monroe’s front door had alerted her to Monroe’s own Blutbaden ancestry. She hadn’t even knocked. Monroe had to open the door for her after waiting a reasonable amount of time. After all, he had heard her pull up to the front of his house and once again weighed the pros and cons of having her come to him. If he had come to her, he feared the flock. There was something unsettling about flock mentality. Normally passive, even meek Wesen could get ugly if there were enough of them. And Beaumont-Wilshire had hundreds of Kleinlautvogel. 

At the same time, there was this.

Once face to face, he had worked to get her calm enough to listen. About a half hour later, still standing in his doorway, he had managed to convince her that he was Wieder and he wasn’t going to kill, maul, or otherwise harm her. He also wasn’t going to cross the Willamette to devour the flock. All he really wanted to do was fix her pocket watch. Hesitantly, she nodded and crossed over Monroe’s threshold to hand over the watch. 

The gold plated brass was warm from being tightly incased between Ellen’s palms. He was just about to open the back plate to view the internal structure of the watch when Nick arrived. 

Or more accurately Nick barged into Monroe’s home as if it was his own pushing the poor woman aside as he entered.

Nick muttered a quick apology while simultaneously asking about coffee leaving the stunned and easily frightened woman in the foyer. As Nick made his way into Monroe’s kitchen requesting, in Nick’s opinion, which was more of a demand, for a moment of Monroe’s time. Nick had been at the station all night and it would really help. Then Monroe’s cupboards began to open and close with a bang, as the Grimm seized a mug for his pilfered coffee. Somehow along the way between being accused of kidnapping little girls, public searches of his home, and an offering of a superb microbrew, Monroe had become Nick’s go-to person for all things Wesen. This meant that whenever Nick had a question, whether it was midnight or midday, Monroe was available. The stupid Grimm cop had blinders that allowed him to only see immediate importance of his query.

Never mind that the sudden appearance of a Grimm might frighten the local Wesen.

A sense of déjà vu swept over Monroe with glum realization. He could see the phantom outline of pretty brunette in red screaming “pervert” and “monster” at the top of her lungs at Monroe from his curbside before peeling out. A miserable experience that he must thank Nick for. After all, it was his stupid accusation that cost Monroe the opportunity to work on an Atmos.

And just as he feared, Nick’s physical presence was all that it took to send Ellen back into flight. She snatched the watch from Monroe’s hands scratching blunt nails over his palms as her fingers hooked over the timepiece once more. Her eyes widened in shock at the action and the possible implication of irritating a Blutbad, but the knowledge of what Nick was frightened her more. Kleinlautvogels weren’t high on the list of creatures Grimms hunted. They were more akin to Eisbibers. Creatures that stayed with their own and could be comically intimidated with astonishing ease. If there was a line of them, Monroe could cut in front of the entire line with just one look. Not a single Wesen in line would argue. Hell, they’d probably offer to pay. This was why they had flocked to Beaumont-Wilshire. There were lots of homes for a wide range of incomes. Enough to accommodate the whole flock. But being passive didn’t mean they didn’t fear Grimms. Everyone was scared of a creature that was supposed to behead you and your family just for existing.

“Mrs. Jassenski, please…”

She stood at the edge of Monroe’s porch steps eyeing the bits of concrete like they would spare her life from certain danger. Her brown eyes were liquid with fear as she turned to look back at Monroe. Her hair swung over her face once more as she muttered softly, “I-I can’t.”

She flew down the steps without looking back once. 

Monroe was grateful that she managed to avoid spinning the tires of her modest Honda Accord and leaving a trail of heated rubber. At least he was spared from reliving that scene.

She also never let go of that pocket even as she maneuvered a three point turn in two.

He took in another deep sigh and ran his hands through his unruly brown hair. Closing the door carefully and bottling in the rage at another lost commission, Monroe turned towards the source of his misery. A Grimm. A freakin’ five foot eleven inch tall, dark haired Grimm that seemed determined to barge into his life. Monroe was bigger. He was taller. And he was certain he could take the green Grimm if he wanted to.

But…

And wasn’t that the bitch?

The naïve little Grimm was adorable. A lot like a lost puppy. He looked at Monroe with big grey, pleading eyes and suddenly the idea of yelling at him was the worse sin in the world. Monroe hated that Nick had that effect on him. But it was the reason Monroe had offered him a beer. It was the reason he tolerated these interruptions. It was the reason he was beginning to feed Nick dinner.

And worst of all? The Grimm knew it.

On the bright side, Monroe reminded himself, he was making history. Never before had a Grimm existed that wanted to learn about Wesen behaviors. Nick was fascinated at the concept of Wesen church and Monroe’s love-hate relationship with the color red. He enjoyed employing Monroe’s heightened senses to solve crimes – even if that had led to dog jokes. Nick stopped wearing the color red for Monroe. He stood as the first Grimm in history to ask – to investigate like the Detective he was – before executing.

A cop first and a Grimm second. 

It was wild and Monroe was finding that he liked the juxtaposition.

Nick was leaning against Monroe’s butcher block in the kitchen with a file resting on the tiled counter top nearby. He took another swallow of Monroe’s very expensive Blue Hawaiian coffee, downing it like that “cop coffee” swill he was familiar with, and gestured to the file. “What do you know about strange swirl burns on victims?”

Monroe only wished that Nick would learn manners along with Wesen knowledge. Something along the lines of “Thank you Monroe for the coffee. I know it costs as much as those Bruins tickets I loved so dearly.” Or “Thank you for your time Monroe. I didn’t mean to make your client flee like it was the coming of World War III.” 

In all truth Monroe would accept “Thanks” and nothing more. Beggars can’t be choosers unless they were Grimm cops.

But swirl patterns? It sounded like that fairytale that Opa used to tell every time the pups were gather around the fire and there was a nip in the air. When Monroe would sit crossed-legged in a Lotus position looking up at his grand pappy in gaping wonder and listened to his aged deep voice describe a world beyond imagination. “Huh?” Monroe plastered a quizzical look on his face and he reached to look at the crime scene photos Nick had brought him.

Polishing off the coffee and helping himself to a second cup, Nick laid out the homicide case he was investigating. “An executive was found late yesterday afternoon in his office. His entire body is covered in strange burns that spiraled. Naturally, I thought of you.”


	3. Black Forest Cuckoo

“All I’ll need to do is remove the movement and place the chain back on the sprocket wheel. It’s pretty simple, but I’ll make sure there’s nothing else is interfering with the pendulum. After all,” Monroe laughed to himself holding the cuckoo clock carefully so he could look at the fine details, “this is a beauty from the heart of the Black Forest.”

Derrick Klein, Monroe’s customer today, nodded, “It was a gift from a wealthy client of mine.” He eyed it with a look of complete disinterest, “I don’t really care for it, but he will be visiting my office soon and it would be rude to not have it on display.” 

The clock was built from linden and stained an earthy walnut. Probably not the most fashion forward but it brought out the delicate carving on the owls’ wings and beaks. The cuckoo was modeled after traditional hunting cuckoo clocks with a flourish of carved leaves and the tiny dancers, placed on a rotating wheel just beneath the cuckoo and above the dial, wore traditional German garb. Usually traditional clocks like this had deer so the owls were uncommon, but Monroe loved quirky things like this. All in all, it was a pretty nice gift in Monroe’s opinion, but, hey, to each their own.

“How quickly can you finish this?” Klein picked at his collar as if being in Monroe’s humble, knick-knack invested home was causing him to have an allergic reaction. Then again most self-important preening humans were like that. Given Klein’s choice in vehicle, a newer model BMW something, and the big, gaudy Rolex watch weighing down his wrist, Monroe could tell that the label matter more than the object itself. 

And a rustic cuckoo clock wouldn’t match his unfailingly pricy designer décor. 

Turning back to the clock with the upmost pity, Monroe calculated the time he’d need to simultaneously give due care to the clock and appease his client. “If you’re in a hurry, I could have this beauty,” the clock did, after all, deserve more respect, “done in a coupla hours. Want me to call you when it’s done?”

Klein sniffed and slicked back his thinning dark hair, “No.” He reached into his suit jacket and flicked out a business card at Monroe. “Just bring it by the office. My secretary will be expecting you.”

Accepting the crisp white card and smudging it with some residual oil from handling the clock, “Okay, it’ll probably be done about, say three?”

“Adequate.”

Bidding his obnoxious client with a severe lack of appreciation for finer time pieces good bye, Monroe settled in for the afternoon. He never failed to give each piece he worked on his complete and undivided attention. Even lowliest wrist watch earned respect under this roof – as long as it was analog.

Digital.

Monroe sneered at the word and opened the back cover of the cuckoo to begin.

Slipping the back cover into place, Monroe smiled at the clock. The only thing wrong with it was that the weight chain had slipped off its wheel. It was a fairly common problem that was invariably caused by shoddy packing during shipment. One bad bump with the clock lying at a horizontal angle and chain slippage was inevitable. 

Glancing over the twin owls in flight set against carved pine needles and pine cones, he silently wished he could rescue it. In his home, it would receive a place of honor. It would be hung carefully to ensure that nothing could knock it off the wall; accidental or otherwise. It would be polished and oiled regularly and its alto cuckoo enjoyed hour after hour in harmony with his favorite baritone cuckoo. Instead, he was going to deliver it back into the hands of Mr. Klein who will maybe have it display for a day before chucking it into a forgotten storage space; only to be rediscovered when something crushed it beyond repair.

He wanted it to have a better fate.

A gentle buzz from his cell phone brought Monroe’s attention away from the clock to see Nick’s photo looking at him. He had wanted to label it “Grimm” or “Do Not Answer” if the call came at two in the morning, but, no, all it said was “Nick”. 

It was nearly a half past two in the afternoon. A nice normal time for Nick to call, but once again the Grimm’s uncanny ability to pick the exact wrong moment reared its head. He needed to return this gorgeous piece from the Black Forest into the hands of a numbskull. An impatient numbskull.

The phone buzzed once more and seemed to have taken on an insistent tone. It was an imagined thing, but it was there nevertheless. As if it was Nick demanded to know why Monroe didn’t simply sit around waiting for him to call. Monroe had gotten to know the fledgling Grimm over the past few months and he’d learned a few things about how Nick operated. The first was that Nick was an incurable workaholic. Once he’d gotten his hands on a case it had to be solved. It didn’t matter if it meant taking on a Siegbarste – and in one case it did mean that – Nick was finding his suspect. Apparently, the detective had never heard of a cold case. The next thing he’d learned was that Nick, despite having a trailer full of books, news reels, journals, and other assorted media that detailed information on Wesen, he preferred to call Monroe. And the time of that call was usually sometime in the very early AM. Apparently, Nick hadn’t heard of reading either. Maybe if someone had made Grimm: The Movie Monroe could sleep between the hours of one and four in the morning. Lastly, he’d learned that somewhere in between talking to Nick about Wesen and offering him that first beer, Monroe had given Nick an all-access pass to his home and its contents. Monroe’s coffee and homemade muffins were a five in the morning snack. His heartwarming tomato bisque with cheesy toast points were surrendered over Nick’s “What’s this Wesen thing?” Monroe’s bottled – not canned – micro brewed beer was consumed at a rate that was pressing him for more commissions.

It was like having Hap in his home all over again. Only Nick didn’t insistent on pork based products.

“You’re personal Grimm-o-pedia speaking.”

“Monroe?”

“Yeah, you called.”

Unfazed, Nick continued, “I want you to… well… sniff something.”

There was no stopping it. Monroe scoffed into the cell. While it privately delighted him that Nick appreciated his heightened sense of smell, he did not enjoy the accompanying dog comparisons. “Dude, I told you I’m not a dog.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…”

Hanging his head in defeat, Monroe finished Nick’s thought in his head. The stupid Grimm was out to save the world. That Superman haircut he sported extended beyond a fashion choice; it was a way of life for Nick. For a fleeting ridiculous moment, he pictured Nick in Superman tights with a “G” on the chest instead of an “S”. It brought back his good humor, “Yeah, yeah, come by later. I’ll play Lassie.”

“Oh, um, I’m almost to your place.”

“Isn’t there a law against that? Talking on your cell and driving.”

“Only for civilians.”

Monroe could hear the please just lying beneath the surface. It was always there hiding in the subtext along with thank you. “Nick, I can’t right now. I need to earn a living.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Outside tires crunched over the fallen dead leaves from Monroe’s maple tree. He had plans to rake them up this afternoon but Mr. Klein’s commission had changed that plan. And now his simple schedule was being thrown a loop again. Sometimes life wasn’t fair. His cell phone droned a steady buzz indicating that the call had dropped as the red “End” button shifted into an untouchable gray bar before blinking off the screen. His good humor may have returned but, boundaries! He couldn’t roll over and play fetch whenever Nick wanted. Blutbad did not equal household pet. Setting the clock into its box for transport – upright mind you – before locating his bug’s keys, Monroe prepared to run away if necessary. 

He certainly couldn’t say no.

He could never say no to Nick.

His front door swung open and Monroe could swear he’d locked it. Holding the packed clock in his hands with his keys dangling from where he stuck his index finger through the key ring, he glared at the Grimm standing in his foyer. “That was locked.”

“Which is why I have a key,” Nick grinned that lop-sided smirk and broke what little was left of Monroe’s resolve instantly. Grimm’s shouldn’t be that adorable. Nick fished out a baggie from a manila envelope. “Just a quick whiff.”

“It’s never a quick whiff. It’s ‘smell this’ followed up with a reader’s digest version of what it is.”

Nick seemed to ponder that, “Well… yeah.”

The sweet, grey puppy dog eyes begged Monroe to do exactly as asked. Nick was definitely more formidable in person – over the phone certain features weren’t visible. Might as well give up, “Ok, ok. But let me get this to a client and then we’ll talk. As long as you want. Maybe take a tour of wherever it came from. Make yourself at home. I won’t be gone long”

Nick shifted his weight from foot to foot, “I’ll drive you and you can update me along the way?”

Monroe wanted there to be a reason to disagree. He really, really wanted there to be something could say to delay the head-strong Grimm blocking his doorway, but all that came out was, “Fine.”

The drive to Klein’s firm was intolerably long. The baggie reeked of Skalengeck even before Nick opened it. Skalengeck did enjoy a wealth of chemical and herbal… um, items. Monroe explained this and Nick filled in the blanks surrounding the confiscation of the bag. Something about a known crash house for felons, a parolee surprise search visit from uniforms, a whole lot of drugs, and a dead body. 

All in all it made Monroe eternally grateful that Nick hadn’t taken the offer to check the place out in person. The place would have reeked. He would have smelled it for days.

Nick was rather involved in relaying the events of the search and things found on the dead body. So much so in fact that Monroe let Nick walk with him up to the ninth floor and into Klein’s office. Nick was at least kind enough to open the door for Monroe and press the elevator’s buttons. Showing deferment to the clock was always a good thing in Monroe’s book. 

It was then that Monroe realized a grave error. 

The secretary was a Fuchsbau. She wasn’t human. He had stupidly assumed that since Klein was human his staff would be too. After all, not many Wesen could stomach that much cologne in combination with hair gel, stale cigarette smoke, and the bewildering scent of peaches.

Monroe didn’t want to know why his client smelled of peaches.

But what he had forgotten was that Fuchsbau were the light-fingered thieves of the Wesen world. They loved to be around wealth and privilege to see what scraps they could acquire under the unwitting nose of the well-to-do. 

It was easy to forget with Rosalee in his life. 

After her brother’s untimely passing at the hands of Skalengeck in search of J, Rosalee had integrated into Monroe’s increasingly weird circle of friends. What else would you call a vegetarian Blutbad, brave Eisbiber, honest Fuchsbau, and a Grimm that doesn’t execute on sight? It all added up to a sweet PC version that, had the human world known about Wesen, would have won Humanitarian of the Year.

And why didn’t Nick recall that? Hello? He knew about Skalengeck and their penchant for herbal escapes. Sure, he could recall every snarky comment Monroe made, memorize Monroe’s schedule down to the point that dinner had just finished cooking when Nick was arriving, and hunt down that blue coffee mug no matter where Monroe placed it in his kitchen. But Grimm stuff? Oh no, that’s only the stuff he needed to know to, like, survive. 

In any case, Rosalee was a wealth of knowledge in the apothecary arts and that very knowledge was quickly saving Nick’s bacon as much as Monroe’s homespun Wesen tales. They were two of a kind in a sense. Complete opposites by birth but a brother and sister in choice. She was the antithesis of her kind. Open and honest and loving that she too could influence a green Grimm in a positive way. She had been wary of Nick but once she saw what Monroe had she jumped on the “Nick’s a good Grimm” bandwagon. 

It brought them together over a glass of wine many times.

But the Fuchsbau before Monroe wasn’t Rosalee. She was an atypical, freaked out over seeing a Grimm kind of Fuchsbau.

There hadn’t even been a ghost of a chance to try to explain that before the secretary, sporting unusually shiny and large cufflinks for a woman’s blouse, sprung from her chair and threw open the doors to her boss’ office. The twin doors opened at different paces making successive bangs off the rubber door stoppers before making a few scant inches back towards each other. The result of such an entrance caused Klein to swear a colorful line of phrases ruining what was, without a doubt, a very promising phone call. 

What came next was a blur of activity that Monroe could only reason that he willed to be that way. His client turned a fantastic shade of red and slammed down the phone receiver in a fashion that echoed in Monroe’s head. Like a drawn out over-the-top John Woo film. The still unknown secretary, who will forever be remembered as that Fuchsbau secretary when Nick and Monroe talked about this later, was flailing her arms, screaming at the top of her lungs and gesturing at Nick. Who was of course standing next to Monroe and confusing the ignorant human. Klein had no idea why his secretary was upset at Monroe’s appearance. He was missing a significant amount of context.

Naturally, Super Grimm tried to come to the rescue and only made things worse. He took that one fatal step into the room and if Fuchsbau could fly that woman might have tried to bail out the window. Since she couldn’t, she instead chose to climb her boss in that comical effort to build space from the object of her terror when there simply wasn’t room to give. Which, in turn, gave Klein an unexpected up close view of his secretary’s handsome cufflinks.

Apparently, Fuchsbau aren’t so smooth when they think they are about to be murdered on the spot.

Soon Klein was screaming at her and the secretary tried to turn around a desperate situation. Monroe might have felt pity for her. He fully understood the heart-stopping, I’m-going-to-pee-my-pants terror that comes from a Grimm just popping up out of nowhere. It was sort of ironic. She began to plead for Klein’s understand over the growing volume of Klein’s demands to know how much she took. Her speech slid into the incomprehensible as she groped for words to try to explain why the men in doorway where such a source of fright for her. Monroe wasn’t clear on the transition, but he knew that once Nick’s badge came out he simultaneously heard Klein ask to press charges and the dull thump of the secretary hitting the floor after fainting. 

Monroe figured that everyone, including Klein, believed that the secretary was fearful of Nick simply because she recognized the plain clothes cop.

As Monroe looked into the face of Nick’s partner, Hank, explaining the events as they unfolded he watched for signs of recognition. It wasn’t too long ago that Nick had taken Hank to Monroe’s house to identify a wristwatch – as shockingly un-Grimm as that was. Standing in his home, Monroe watched as Hank had paused trying to locate Monroe in his memory but failed to do so. Which was perfectly fine with Monroe. He didn’t need anyone remembering him from his brief stint as a child kidnapping suspect. The stocky black man was taking his notes diligently but that same look was pasted all over his face. He knew Monroe. From where he couldn’t place and it had to be driving the detective crazy. 

As for the commission, Monroe looked at the flaps of the opened cardboard box. With all the police activity going on the clock had been lost in the confusion. It sat safe and secure on Klein’s replica presidential desk. Because what other man in the world had more power? The clock was beautiful and ready for hanging.

If only that clock-giving client of Mr. Klein’s hadn’t arrived early. A thieving secretary could be explained away and such a police response only showed him to be an important member of the community. Even if the response was only to back up Nick. But the clock in a box – that turned Klein back to the impressive red shade. As if all the blood in his body had defied physics to travel into his face. The two men were now standing in a corner of the large office speaking in angry tones that Monroe only wished he couldn’t hear.

It wasn’t as if Monroe hadn’t tried to rectify the situation. When Klein offered the flimsy story about getting the clock maintenance and wanting to show just how much he adored the gift, Monroe backed up the story. A story that fell apart mere seconds later when the client asked where the clock was usually displayed. In a moment of panic, Monroe picked an empty narrow wall which wouldn’t get direct sunlight and would prevent the wood from being slowly bleached into destruction. Plus the space allowed for the hanging brass pinecone weights. Mr. Klein picked a prominent empty square on his ego wall crowded with pictures of wealthy clients, celebrities, and other such folk which only had enough room for a standard $12.99 wall clock. 

It also didn’t help that wasn’t a nail in either wall to hang the clock with. 

The conversation ended with an indignant shout drawing all eyes to the two men. The client stormed over to the desk, declared that he was taking his unwanted gift back, and whatever business the two were engaged in was through. 

Great.

Monroe thought about the invoice in his coat pocket. He used simple triplicate receipts that probably weren’t even used in rural hardware stores anymore. He had performed a service and by all rights he should get paid, but with the police circus in the lobby and ruining a part of his client’s business, no matter how indirectly, he was having doubts.

He hated this part. Asking for money always felt so low but it was a necessary part of operating a business. Turning the invoice over in his hands he delicately approached Klein as the police began to leave, “Uh, um, Mr. Klein?” 

The proud man turned and glared at Monroe. Twisting a ring on his hand, the man pressed his lips together to form a hard white line.

“I’m sor –”

“You bet your ass you’re sorry! I was told you were the best, but look! Look at this!” He gestured wildly to the remnants of chaos in the office, which wasn’t really all that bad. Janitorial just needed to vacuum up a few dirty boot prints and that make-up smug the secretary left on the carpet after she fainted. All that was left after that was a little tidying up of some scattered papers. “You call this professional?”

Monroe opened his mouth in reply but was cut off before he could even form the words.

Klein glared at the carpet, “Ruined. Absolutely ruined – in moments. And it’s your fault!”

Blood coursed its way quickly through Monroe system to throb in his ears at the shrill tone and quicken his heart. No, no. Not now. Trying to slow the rising growth of adrenaline, Monroe’s voice tightened, “Mr. Klein, what happened with your secretary…”

“That! That thieving wench will get what’s coming to her. But you… I’ll handle myself.”

Old instincts flooded his system and demanded that he answer the challenge. He was exhausted. His ears were still ringing from all the screaming, he had driven up town in a car that reeked of Skalengeck, the police still gave him once overs that made him flashback to that day his house was “searched”, and it wasn’t even five in the afternoon. Now this pompous little ass had the nerve to blame Monroe for his failings. Monroe didn’t pick the secretary. Monroe didn’t wait until the last bleeding minute to have a clock repaired. Monroe didn’t insult his client’s generosity by accepting his gift as if it was a bag of dogshit from the park.

Monroe had only done as asked with a small Grimm surprise that he was beginning to fear was the bane of his business.

It also meant that his control was weak. It always was when he reached a certain point. Taking in one deep breath to swallowing the fury that boiled a little too close to the surface, “Mr. Klein, what happened was unintended, but the repair…”

“And then there’s that! All you had to do was deliver some barnyard crap clock and you bring a cop with you? Why, in God’s name, would you bring a friend along with you to transact business? Are you inept? Or is lacking common sense…”

“Mr. Klein,” Monroe hated to interrupt a client, it wasn’t something that he did often, but he’d taken enough. The entire day was one long exercise in how to test his Wieder behavior. All of his senses were at least assaulted once today, not to mention his meager pride, but calling that cuckoo a crap clock was the final straw. It was a sublime piece that possessed more value than any of the fashion of the month crap in this office. It was a timeless, handcrafted work of art. Forcing his jaw to work out the words while withholding the growl that itched to be vocalized, “The clock arrived at three as agreed. Everything else that happened was unfortunate.” He began to show the bill for the repair and maintenance for clock by placing it on the desktop.

He wouldn’t touch his client.

He wouldn’t kill his client.

“You’re out of your fucking head if you think I’m paying for this.” Monroe opened his mouth to reply when Klein leaned in, “You may be right, but I will fight your piddly charges with enough litigation to bankrupt you. So think hard.” With that final thought he pushed a forefinger into Monroe’s chest, rocking Monroe on his feet. Failing to force Monroe to take a step back, the man stood back arms crossed in a pathetic attempt at size asking – daring – Monroe to react. 

The world dripped red.

A primal roar sounded through Monroe silently and he wrestled with deeply ingrained urges. They clawed and scratched at his mind desperate to be unleashed after being chained for so long. It would feel so good. His hands ached to grip, to rip, to wrench that offending limb from the body and the others as well for good measure. Old senses recalled the sweet warmth of fresh blood flowing over his tongue and the remembrance of fear’s scent teased him. It would be so easy – so quick. This pretentious little shit had no idea that he wouldn’t even have a chance to scream before it could all be over. 

His vision narrowed to the juncture of the throat and shoulder pulsing in a siren’s song that his teeth ached to answer. Years spent honing his control kept Monroe rigid. Frozen into place like one of those living statue street performers. Even now, at this frail moment, the faint voice of reason grounded him; holding him fast like a safety line. Taking in measured breaths until the color bled back into the world and expanded beyond his victim’s – client’s – neck. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get out.”

It seemed as if an eternity had passed in moments. The offensive jerk before him had mistaken Monroe’s control for fear.

If only he knew.

The door swung open without a knock and Nick stepped in. “Um, Monroe? You ready to go?”

A string of words his Oma had used only when the worst happened to her passed through Monroe’s mind. Clueless Nick had picked up on the tension in the office. The man couldn’t sense Monroe’s exasperation at drinking his premium home blended coffee like crap cop coffee swill Nick was used to but he picks up on this. 

The pause was uncomfortably long as Klein stared out his window as his sad alpha male was satisfied in its meek superiority and Nick looked at Monroe with wide-eyed innocence that shouldn’t be possible after fourteen. With one last glare at the human, Monroe retreated raking a hint of claw over the desk as he took his bill back. He wanted to fight, to put his “client” in his place, but…

It wasn’t worth it.

The clock, at the very least, was returned to loving arms escaping its long, slow death at the hands of this human.

Grey eyes looked at Monroe asking without the need for speech if everything was ok; just a mere glance to gesture to the figure standing before the window. Forcing a smile to his face and flicking out the last little bit of wood shavings stuck under his nails, Monroe walked out letting Nick get the door. Once the two were back in the elevator Nick spoke first. It wasn’t that unusual as silence was another thing that the little Grimm despised. He’d rather have meaningless chatter. 

“I’m sorry. I should have waited.”

The pitiful tone warmed Monroe. Nick had a good heart even if it got him into immeasurable trouble. “It’s ok.”

“I mean who’d have thought that the secretary was a thief? I’ve never worked property crimes – well, except the in progress types.”

Monroe blinked in astonishment. “You did see that she was a Fuchsbau, right?”

“Oh yeah, once we got through the door…”

“And you do recall that I told you to count your fingers after shaking hands with a Fuchsbau?”

Ah, blessed naivety your name is Nick. He looked at Monroe in abject confusion, “And?”

“And they’re tricky, sly, thieving Wesen. Do you retain?”

Nick’s features twisted into a frown, “Well… I mean… I’m trying not to stereotype.”

All the frustration from his encounter with Klein slid off Monroe to float weightlessly away. He wanted to scoff at Nick’s weak excuse, laugh at how ridiculous it all was, and hug the smaller man tightly. Nick was the good Grimm. He was clumsy, stumbling his way through the Wesen world but slowly getting better. Nick held onto his police manufactured ethics until they were forced to break. Then, he’d mend them and try all over again. 

Nick was adorable and Monroe feared he may love him for it. All of Monroe’s life was an exercise in hard life lessons. Each terrible thing building upon the next – never forgotten. Even his own personal rehabilitation was a block that gathered up that former life and stood testament to how bad he could be. An ugly sin he could not undo. 

But Nick made all things possible. 

With Nick he felt more and more like the person he wanted to be and less like the monster he feared. Even in that room when the urge was at its strongest, he held firm. He had pushed his control to the limit and it held.

“Yeah, well, a little bit never hurts. Just as guidelines.”

That treasured lop-sided grin appeared on Nick’s face, “You may be right about that.”


	4. The Modern Moving Gear

The fallout from the Klein incident had been bad.

Really bad.

It wasn’t as if Monroe didn’t know how to handle unhappy customers or even, as was the case, excessively rude clients, but this was a whole new level. Somehow in that oil slicked head, his one and truly only asshole customer sought out Monroe’s business with a vengeance. Negative word of mouth wasn’t anything new. Some people can’t help but complain but Klein went so far as to register and post fake damaging reviews on sites like Yelp, the Yellowpages, his own website – under testimonials – and Angie’s List. 

Reviews you can trust his Uncle Otto’s hairy backside. And Uncle Otto looked to be in full woge 24 hours a day. To think he’d only joined the stupid site because his customers put him on it. 

A loyal customer of Monroe’s, a sweet aging man who adored his railroad pocket watches as much as he adored his model train sets, alerted Monroe to the problem. It was so, so bad. Monroe was sick. He’d hung his head next to the open screens wondering if he should break out great-great Opa’s secret stash of moonshine. He kept in a mason jar high above the refrigerator. The perfectly clear liquid smelled like rubbing alcohol, was close to 150 or 175 proof, and should be cut, but often wasn’t. Blutbaden senses came with a high tolerance for alcohol. His cousin continued to make the wretched concoction, but the jar was left over from his wilder days. It was a sole reminder of home when he really never wanted to go back.

Really, really never wanted to go back.

But the highly potent liquid was strong enough to numb the shock of it all. Horrible things said about his humble little business were posted on the Internet. Where nothing dies. Even if he somehow pacified Klein and convinced each site to pull down the reviews, someone somewhere would remember it.

Mostly Angie’s List because the bitch wouldn’t pull it down. According to the site’s FAQ, they were neutral and good and bad reviews help form opinions. Bad reviews that he could reply to but couldn’t change. For the cost of a $2.00 membership, charged repeatedly and suspiciously enough times that it nearly matched Monroe’s fee, Klein had racked up quite the hateful resume. Monroe rolled his eyes cursing his Wieder lifestyle from preventing Klein’s death. He could have ripped the man limb from limb leaving the cops only nine floors below to ponder how in the hell could a man drawn and quartered in a high-rise?

But noooo.

Pressing his forehead to the well polished wood of the desk he wondered why. Why? Why did an adorable Grimm have to enter his life? Why didn’t Monroe kill him instead of feeding him? Why did he befriend said Grimm?

Why, why, why?

He was so lost in miserable thought he never heard the front door open. Monroe only jumped when a hand rested on his shoulder with the gentle pressure of someone providing both comfort and using him as leverage to read the open computer tab. Looking up at the offender, he watched as Nick read the reviews.

Those doe-grey eyes scanned over the screen shifting from soft and tired to cold and hard. “What the fuck, Monroe? Did he do this?”

Hello to you too. Monroe supposed it wasn’t all that bad. It was only his business, his livelihood. “I’m guessin’ so. Nothing solid though.”

Worrying his lip to make it fuller and redder, Nick went through a mental checklist trying to figure out how to pay back that son of a bitch properly. He could try harassment or even slander, but that required proof. Proof required Wu. And Wu… well, was Wu. Maybe he could dust off the Juliette frustration long enough to put together a convincing flirtation with that geeky hermit in computer forensics to go around Wu. The room was a little freaky to go into which was why Wu had a strangle hold on anyone looking for anything technical. It was generally assumed that Wu had supplied a free direct connect to some homosexual porn site which left the hermit deeply indebted to Wu.

Then again, maybe he could just take Wu out to the 10-20. Feed him dinner plate sized burgers, crunchy onion rings, and enough beer to drown the mounted patrol – and their steeds. It would be expensive, but a hell of a lot easier than cheering up. 

Looking down to the shaggy head glued to the desktop and softly muttering why to himself, Nick felt awful. Okay, so Kathryn Gillis – otherwise known as that Fuchsbau secretary – was a thief and that had caused problems. She was also a Fuchsbau and that had caused problems. But the ultimate problem of all problems that day was that the clock Monroe had worked on wasn’t as treasured as the giver had perceived. It wasn’t even a problem that Monroe caused. It was caused by the asshole who posted this shit. An asshole Nick was regretting saving as he watched Monroe teeter on the edge of killing. It was a risky call, but Nick had faith that Monroe wouldn’t do it. The subtle marring of the man’s desk was funny until he’d found out about the refusal to pay.

Nick had thought about forcing the issue but Monroe insisted on leaving it alone. Let him cool off. It will blow over.

Well here is the price of patience and understanding. A big bite in the ass.

Patting Monroe on the back, Nick slipped back out of the house. He didn’t want to go home and sleep on the couch anyway. Instead, he dialed Hank for a boys’ night out on him – oh and invite Wu.

The bill was horrifying, the results incredible, but the damage was already done. After quietly accepting a bill from the 10-20 that Nick considered selling a kidney to pay for, Wu went to work – once he was sober again. In a matter of hours, Monroe’s business was changed from run now to who else would you pick? Wu tracked down the IP address from the poster who was amazingly the same guy in every case. The address was for the Wi-Fi administrator for the building Klein operating in. It proved what Nick had known all along and simultaneously laughed at Nick proclaiming that there was no way he could to tie it to Klein legally. Fudging the fourth amendment for friends was one thing but bringing it before a judge was another. 

There wasn’t a legal way to punish Klein.

Well, not criminally – maybe civilly but that required money and an attorney. 

Monroe didn’t care. He was happy to see that the reviews weren’t just struck out with a weak little line drawn through the words or a witty counter review, but completely removed. Granted, he feared that Klein could try to repost, but Nick had seen to that as well. Given the generous payment of liquor, Wu had offered to monitor the sites for the next few months ready to strike the moment a post was made. He also called in a few uniform favors to make sure Klein understood that messing with the blue brotherhood carried its own costs. Monroe didn’t have a shield, but Nick did. And that was all that mattered.

Happy to have finally settled the matter, a new problem worried its way through Monroe’s mind. In the span of time in between creating, discovering, and solving the Klein problem, Wu and Hank, as well as various patrolmen Monroe couldn’t name, began to treat him differently. It wasn’t like they were letting him out of speeding tickets – which he didn’t have – but he was no long another faceless citizen. He was greeted warmly on the street like a long lost brother. The desk duty officer now jumped up to hold the partition door to the secured rooms open for Monroe when he visited the station. 

Even his problem’s solution carried an air of apprehension. Wu claimed payment from a boys’ night out Nick had sponsored at the 10-20 for the website tampering. What he didn’t do was claim any form of payment for the newfound police harassment that Klein was undergoing. It was given – gifted – as if it was natural. A simple gesture that was always going to happen whether Nick paid Wu or not. Klein messed with Monroe so they were going to mess with him. 

The action was unlike anything Monroe had come to expect from the snarky Asian sergeant. All of Nick’s stories about the man and even actions Monroe had witnessed firsthand didn’t match the sudden bout of favor calling. 

But Monroe was the only one unsettled by the generosity.

Hank hadn’t batted an eye when they informed Monroe of the blue payback. He had only let off a mildly wicked chuckle and made a wry comment about paying dues. Nick hadn’t flinched or given any sign of surprise. That warm lop-sided smile appeared as he gave Monroe a strong clap to the shoulder as a silent gesture.

Monroe wasn’t a damsel in distress. Hell, the thought of some poofy, pink monstrosity and himself made a visual that he shook from his memory. But this? He was starting to wonder when the ball gown had been slipped into his home. The irrational thought to check his closets for anything made of satin passed through his head. 

Who shielded a Blutbad from the evils of the world?

Apparently, the Portland police supporting an idealist Grimm.

Besides Monroe wasn’t Nick’s girlfriend? Juliette may have not a single memory of Nick or the three years they spent together, but she was still Nick’s girlfriend. Hell, she was almost his fiancée. Monroe knew that Nick had proposed but Juliette had said not right now. She’d been leery of Nick’s secrets – secrets that Monroe insisted that Nick keep to himself. 

And that was before the demon cat from hell scratched her and erased every memory she held of Nick.

Now it was just weird. They had tried living together as strangers until Nick couldn’t take the couch for one more night. That’s when Monroe opened his home to Nick.

Okay so maybe that’s where the confusion was coming from. Sure Nick ate dinner at his house often and occasionally breakfast before the Juliette incident. And maybe Monroe had put together a little lunch/dinner for Nick when he had that case involving a, shockingly, human murderer who went on a killing spree and the entire station had refused to leave until the bastard was caught. And, yes, he let Nick move in, but it was only common sense. Monroe was tired of finding the Grimm passed out in the trailer reeking of 24 hours worth of grime and a heavy nightcap. If he was going to haul the Grimm into his house for a hot shower and breakfast before work, Nick might as well live there and spare Monroe the drama.

And Monroe had forged a sort-of friendship with Hank thanks to that Coyotl incident.

But it wasn’t like that! At all…

Nick still held onto the stubborn and increasingly desperate hope that Juliette would remember. As if repairing her memory would somehow in some magical way suddenly make everything better. Monroe knew that secrets were lurking and that sweet lies still had to be told. 

He may not know much about relationships but he knew enough that secrets and lies weren’t a good thing.

But it all added up to Juliette as Nick’s girlfriend. Monroe… well Monroe wasn’t sure what he was to Nick. Friends certainly, but even he wasn’t going to dare the waters of best friends. Hank really held that spot especially since the last secret between them was removed with the Coyotl incident. Hank was freaked out but in the know.

So…  
His phone buzzed playing an electronic version Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. His mind was exhausted. The Klein thing had worn him down and thinking about his new police protection was only added context to a situation that had none. So color him surprised when Bud’s picture showed on the screen in a near woged state, “Hey Bud.”

“Um, hey Monroe… I… you… there’s…”

Monroe just smiled at the consistency. At least something was exactly as expected.

The repair had been minor. The tiny sealed bubble held steadily at the center of the level verifying for the third time that the modern moving gear clock was perfect. The exposed gears slowly turned and as the ever so pleasing rhythm of tick tock tick tock sounded. 

The clock belonged to a relative or friend of Bud’s, who could tell after all that babble, and this associate had recently moved his engineering marvel only to discover that the clock was “broken”. The intrepid Eisbiber may still babble but Monroe had to give Bud credit. It wasn’t easy to break nature but little by little Bud was exploring into territory that no Eisbiber in history had dared to tread. 

Nick was the cause of that. Like so many Wesen, Bud had been so terrified of just Nick’s presence that he left his refrigerator repair tools on Nick’s kitchen floor. The fridge in question was still not functioning. But as time went by the beaver was now so bold as to take part in some mischief. He played a key role in getting the necessary ingredient, Ziegevolk sweat, to stop a swarmy defense attorney from charming a jury into letting his client off. 

Bud certainly wasn’t like any Eisbiber Monroe had known. So he was delighted to head over to fix the broken clock, but given the description of the problem he pulled from Bud the clock was out of beat. It was an on-site fix with no exceptions. That begged the question. Was Bud’s… buddy okay with a Blutbad visiting? Monroe didn’t fear flock mentality with Eisbibers, but he did fear watching an en masse exodus of the area.

“Oh, sure, sure. I already told Maury, that’s his name. Did I tell you that? Anyway, I told Maury that I knew a good guy to fix the clock. He’s tells me great when can I get it fixed? Well then, well then I had to gently… I know you’re not a bad guy, but, hey, not everybody knows that. And Maury doesn’t know. He’s never met you, you know? But I tell him that you’re a good guy. One hundred percent Wieder. But he’s, he’s a bit nervous. A Blutbad! You guys don’t have the best history. What with all that… well you know.”

And on it went from there. 

So far, the quick repair went unsupervised from Maury with only Bud standing testament. Bud had let Monroe into the home and directed him to the clock. Bud had politely offered him a drink, light snack, and desert – handmade by his wife who was a superb baker by the way – in quick succession as each offer was turned down. Bud wrung his hands with a ‘sure, sure’ as Monroe tried to focus on the clock.

The clock was a steampunk dream. A variety of bronze, silver, gold, and black gears interlocked with artistic design. Each gear was different from the next making it a moving sculpture that, had Monroe not erred towards the traditional, inspired a flash of covetous thoughts. Even the pendulum was a cascade of fine small gears coming together into asymmetrical clump. It was well cared for as each gear gleamed with right amount of polish and oil to keep the gears turning and free from jamming.

Monroe hadn’t seen anything like it and wanted to ask if Maury – whoever he was – was the clock’s creator. He could list a few conventions not to mention shops that would be thrilled to display and sell a piece like this.

Sadly, it didn’t seem meant to be. Despite Bud’s assurances that Maury was okay with a clock repairing, Wielder Blutbad visiting, reality differed greatly. Whoever Maury was he had a small, young family if the light scurrying of small feet was any indication. He also had a nervous wife as she constantly shushed the child or children in tones not quite low enough for him to ignore. 

The icing on cake was that they were all hiding in the darker portion of house just off the hallway from presumably Maury’s living room. It was obvious that they were there. It was obvious that they were hiding from him. It was obviously getting on Monroe’s nerves. He only wanted to have a nice, normal repair job. No Grimm surprises. No panicky Fuchsbau secretaries. No accusations against his person.

You’d think that a friend of Bud’s would fit the bill. 

You’d think that Monroe walked over here carrying the bleeding, decapitated head of the Eisbiber Lodge Leader in his clawed hands. Not an unassuming old body, yellow Volkswagen Bug bearing only the tools of his trade and plans to swing by his organic grocer once the job was completed.

Curious hands edged around the corner only to be yanked back as if hell itself threatened to pull the child into the room. Taking in a deep breath to calm his irritation, Monroe made the necessary adjustment to the verge by bending it careful back into place as “shhh” was hissed out once more from the darkened room.

And through it all Bud stood in silence starring. 

Monroe never thought he’d see the day where he wished for Bud’s prattle. But in this exact moment, the quiet punctuated with “shhh” and tiny muffle thumps of tiny feet was taking on an air straight from a Hitchcock film. Any moment now the air would fill with man-eating birds, murderous neighbors were hacking their spouses to pieces, and god only knew what sitting in a rocking chair in the attic. 

Monroe’s hopeful nice, normal repair was quickly becoming the weirdest and most unnerving encounters in his life. It felt like trial by Eisbiber where the hidden family was only waiting for him to devour Bud so Nick’s mom could move in to claim his head. Just the thought of her pulsed an electric cold thrum along his spine. Followed by heat – stuffy, 100% humidity on the Bayou heat. His normally comfortable soft flannel shirt felt like a living breathing thing that was slowly constricting his chest. Monroe’s steady hands were developing a slight shake.

Tapping the pendulum to test the beat and hearing the rhythmic tick tock sound eased his fractured nerves. It was steady and regular. Perfect. 

Relief flooded his senses as the blissful noise filled the air and granted Monroe reprieve. He’d make it to his grocer after all.

“So, uh, do I hand you this,” Monroe held the small scrap of paper detailing the cost of the repair and his time out to Bud. It was a small bill but it was a simple fix. Secretly Monroe was glad for it. A more expensive bill would make him feel awkward. It would have made him feel obligated to lower since it was a buddy of a friend. 

“I… uh, I suppose… I…” 

Bud kept glancing over into the room where the sounds had come from. His hands wrung together making brief moments of separation to gesture for the hidden family to come forth. 

Bud may be a brave Eisbiber but clearly Maury wasn’t. Watching the exchange with visually nothing, Monroe tested the air to see what was hiding. He didn’t really think that Nick’s mom was hiding around here… but it didn’t hurt to confirm. The scent of damp earth not unlike marshlands or swamps played lightly through the air alongside Downey April Fresh and baking dough. At least four distinct scents were old with a fresher fifth filling the air. If Bud was the fifth, then there were four Eisbibers in hiding. He wanted to be angry or at least visibly affronted that the family had hid from him after inviting him over to perform a service. But Eisbibers were Eisbibers – Bud was an exception not a rule.

Still Wieder! All of Monroe big and bad days were safely buried in his past. Well, there was unfortunate rabbit when Angelina visited after Hap. And… the memory still picked at an old wound. Angelina was wild and refused to change but she was still Angelina. He hadn’t relished in that kill. Then again, it was hard to count that. If that counted as a departure from Monroe’s Wieder lifestyle then Nick was the single most prominent serial killer on the West Coast.

Monroe was about to leave the invoice on an end table beside a horrifying floral print couch when a wiry man shuffle stepped out of the darkened room into the hallway to stand at the opening to the living room. His dark brown eyes darting between Monroe and Bud as he clutched the fabric of his oversized jeans at the sides.

“Ah, Maury! See, I told you. Nothing to fear… well, I know there’s… that’s not the point… I mean I understand, but it’s just that Monroe here…”

Monroe ended chatter by offering the slip of paper, length wise, to the man. In a manner that reminded Monroe of a certain Kleinlautvogel at his doorstep, Maury reached out and quickly withdrew a few steps back. Monroe wanted to express his frustration in loud ways, but… he shook off the thoughts and looked to Bud. Offering the invoice to Bud and praying that he’d pick up on the odd game of hot potato that the invoice needed to travel.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Bud took the invoice without the slightest note of fear and walked over to the retreating Maury.

After letting the client read over the invoice, Monroe let his habit dictate how to proceed. “Uh, well, the only thing wrong with the clock was its verge. It’s a little delicate piece about here,” Monroe pointed to a space just off to the side of the moving pendulum. Suddenly intrigued beyond his fear, Maury moved along the wall to get a better look at the clock. If Monroe was more vindictive all he had to was growl and the man would have fled the State. “That’s the verge. It causes the pendulum to move. So, if it’s out of whack so is the timing.”

Maury seemed entranced watching the tiny moving part push the pendulum at a regular rate. Finding his voice, Maury struggled to speak and ended up being surprisingly loud in the quiet of the room, “Why?”

Monroe listened to the hidden family skitter into the backyard and watched Bud jump at the noise, “Um, well, Bud mentioned that you moved it?”

Maury nodded.

“When you move a spring driven piece like this remove the pendulum first. Like this,” Monroe stopped the beat to demonstrate how to remove the pendulum and reattached it. Giving the pendulum a tap to get going again, “That will stop any damage to the verge. Also make sure the clock is completely level. That can affect it too.”

The wiry Eisbiber took in all the information in silence as if he could record the quick instructions just by watching with unblinking intensity.

“Otherwise, you have very fine piece. I’m partial to the older housed clock styles myself, but fine work is always appreciated.” The bizarre near soliloquy was complete and Maury’s terror seems to have subsided at some point in Monroe’s explanation. Monroe still itched to leave.

“H-hold,” Maury managed to speak at a regular volume while holding up a hand with a slight shake as he slipped into that secretive room. It took only seconds before he reappeared holding a check. 

Monroe understood the gesture. Sure he could mail it or even use the PayPal feature on Monroe’s webpage, but Monroe had shown up fast to take care of his clock. It was only right that payment was handled just as swiftly. Sometimes, despite the awkwardness that often ensued, dealing with fellow Wesen was far better than dealing with humans. 

And Monroe didn’t even need to worry with the check would clear. There was no way an Eisbiber would ever pass a bad check to a Blutbad. They feared violence of the fatal kind too deeply.

All in all it seemed like a nice way to wrap up this highly unnerving experience. He was getting paid for a job well done. Trying to be discreet, Monroe fluffed his flannel shirt in an attempt to stave off some of the heat. It was bad enough seeing Maury sweating nervous bullets of sweat. Reaching out to accept the check, Monroe watched as the still nervous Eisbiber’s eyes widen into terror. Still clutching the check that momentarily joined Maury and Monroe as a paper bridge, Maury let out a weak whimper before bolting into the dark room ripping the check as he went.

Monroe hadn’t even the chance to say thank you. Then again, he looked at the bit of paper left in his hand, maybe he didn’t need to. He wanted to ask Bud just what had he done when the answer came him on the lingering scent of fear. A new fear. Not a level of terror that a Blutbad may use his family as an afternoon snack but a fear that shook a being’s core. Nick. The Grimm wasn’t even here and yet…

Oh, no, he was.

Monroe replayed his lunch with Nick. As the cop left his lunch break to return to the precinct, still quite pleased with himself for handling the Klein problem, he had pulled Monroe in a hug. It was designed for comfort but had reminded Monroe of his damsel in distress problem. The very problem he was musing over when Bud called.

He had accepted a full body hug from a Grimm. A Grimm who had taken off for lunch after an exciting day when the witness’ dirt bag boyfriend fled at the sight of cops in his apartment. The same dirt bag boyfriend Nick gave chase to only to discover that he wasn’t involved in the murder of the week, but had an outstanding warrant. 

So it wasn’t just a hug with a light smattering of Grimm aftershave. It was a full bodied I just dunked myself in a vat of Grimm cologne. Monroe hadn’t noticed it until now because he was accustomed it. Bud was used to it.

Maury wasn’t.

Bud was trying to coax out whatever spooked Maury when Monroe stopped him. “Tell me, do you smell Nick?”

“Yeah, but… oh.”

“Didn’t clear that with Maury did you?”

“I didn’t think… I mean he wasn’t… oh dear.”

Monroe discarded the paper bit into the fireplace as the most likely trash receptacle in the room. He was stuck. He couldn’t go after Maury without invoking centuries old fears. He wasn’t sure if he’d be paid if he left.

Given his run of luck, Monroe opted to leave. It was just as well that it was a cheap repair. His taxes this year was going to have a wealth of compulsory donations.

Packing up his tools, Bud mitigated, “I’m… I’ll talk to Maury… I’ll… I’ll handle this.” Bud waved his hands in the air as if encompassing the world in the living room.

“Good luck explaining Nick.”

The Eisbiber chuckled with good humor, “Yeah, sure, sure, and why a living Blutbad smells like him.”

Monroe paused in collecting the last tool. Damnit. Did everybody think he was Nick’s girlfriend?

Bud picked up on Monroe’s paused action. “W-well, I mean… since the whole Juliette thing… a-and you lettin’ him move in and all…”

Monroe’s mind hit a stop gap. It seemed as if the normal world has ceased to exist. The Klein thing, the sudden blue brotherhood of the Portland Police extended to him, all the weird shit that had happened since he set foot into this freaky house, and oud de Grimm lovingly slathered all over him. There was no way he could go to the grocers without changing his clothes. And now – apparently everyone thinks that he and Nick were an item. 

Nick was hung up on Juliette and there was no was way he could even…

Oh.

Oh no.

Monroe needed to get out of this house. There was no way this was happening. Un uh, nope. Cross-Wesen was forbidden enough but this! And Bud was okay with it. He even presumed…

“Just forget about it, Bud. I-I’ve got to go.”

“Okay and again sorry for… well you know… this and that Nick thing… I mean you can’t blame a guy for thinking… you’re just so close… it’s a thing – I thought… oh – oh no don’t tell Nick… I-I-I mean…

It’s that something Bud was less terrified of him than Nick. Monroe waved his hand in a dismissive nature trying to place an end to Bud sudden terrified jabbering. “Forget about it. Later.”

Back outside in his beloved little Bug Monroe thought back to his great-great Opa’s secret stash of moonshine. Maybe a sip or two wouldn’t be that much of a backslide after all.


	5. Waterbury Double Dial Calendar

Nick and Juliette had called it quits because there was just no way to tell her the truth. Monroe had been there when Nick had tried to explain. She was near hysterical, glaring at Nick like he’d lost his mind – which was exactly why Monroe had warned Nick against this course of action. Most humans couldn’t take the truth. Hank had watched his adopted god-daughter woge in front of him and nearly shot her in the process. It was the only reason Hank was slowly coming to terms with the Wesen world. But Juliette had no reason to believe. She had stood in his foyer dripping wet with a wild fearful look in her eyes while Nick begged for Monroe to woge just so she could see. 

Thank God she’d had passed out before she could see him. 

It made seeing her at the market less weird. 

After what Monroe termed the revelation he had in Eisbiber hell, he feared things would get awkward. Monroe was terrible at relationships. He was a great bachelor. But even with the possibility floating around in the back of his brain – because there was no way that was leaving his mind any time soon – cohabitating progressed exactly as expected.

He was quickly, not slowly, losing his mind.

Monroe’s front door swung wide open to bounce off the newly installed rubber stopper hard enough to make the stained glass wolf shake. His musing from mere seconds ago were confirmed to the shuddering thought that Nick may have just kicked the door open on his way in; following closely was the growing fear that one day the stained glass would shatter. The glass panel that his great-great Uncle had made by hand in the forests Germany after the man had gone on an apprenticeship in Italy. It wasn’t one of the better pieces but Monroe loved it all the same. His Opa had agreed when he gifted to Monroe with the advice to make it prominent in the place that would eventually be his home. 

Moving to the foyer to check the door, Monroe was greeted with the site of Nick’s jean clad posterior through the door frame. So he had hip-checked the door open.

At least there wasn’t a boot print.

“Oh hey! I wasn’t sure if you were home.”

The snarky comment was born before Monroe could abort it, “Where else would I be? I mean, I only work out of my house.”

Nick didn’t deserve it. Monroe was just frustrated. While it was logical to have Nick live here it was also unnerving. Monroe loved being Nick’s friend but having Nick 24 hours a day wasn’t something he was fully prepared for. His instincts were screaming through his system far too frequently and it was making him anxious. Even his usual early morning territorial marking wasn’t calming his frazzled nerves like it usually did. Hell, it wanted him to go upstairs and mark “Nick’s” room just so the Grimm knew it was Monroe’s. 

Completely irrational because Nick couldn’t scent territorial markings. 

Well and peeing in Nick’s room would be weird.

Really weird.

A sheepish look passed over Nick’s features at the comment, “I dunno. Don’t you spend a lot of free time with Rosalee?”

This time Monroe held the thought in check as it passed silently away. He had taken to spending time with Rosalee since her shop had a wealth of herbs that could either dull or calm his senses. She also sympathized with Monroe. A roommate wasn’t easy in the most normal of situations but this was heightened. It wasn’t the doldrums of learning another person’s habits. Monroe wished it was simple irritation over using up the hot water or drinking the last of the orange juice. Instead it was a full onslaught of instinctual triggers.

Rosalee had armed Monroe for the inadvertent attacks. Wolfsbane was the most obvious thing that Monroe had in abundance but Wolfsbane extract had solved the laundry problem. Things like Rosemary, Valerian Root, Passion Flower, and Chamomile were added to ease Monroe when his anxiety hit critical mass. She’d even given him a recipe for a combination of oils to soak his pillow in. If it wasn’t for that Monroe didn’t think he could sleep at night with his territory invaded and Nick’s scent all over the house. If Nick was pack that would be one thing, that worked with Hap, but this? 

And to be fair drinking the last of the orange juice had set Monroe off one day. He’d finished his morning Pilates routine feeling a mild settling of his nerves as the physical exertion released a hum of endorphins. All he wanted was a morning glass of orange juice before his necessary caffeine hit. Just that citrusy burst to numb his senses before he sharpened them while sampling a robust blend from Kona that Rosalee insisted was quite good. Instead, he was greeted with a sweaty Grimm detective who had snuck out of the house during his morning Pilates to go jogging. The baggy faded blue hoodie with the Portland Police shield printed on the upper left chest did nothing to conceal the scent. Monroe was accustomed to the rush of dominance that surged through his mind when he and Nick sparred in the woods. But – yeah in the woods. Wide open spaces, filled with the heady scent of pine and musty earth undertones muted out the need to dominant. To prove to Nick that Monroe was Alpha. To prove he was stronger, faster, and unquestionable. Without it, all Monroe had was that need and the clean scent of bleach and distantly fading lemon polish. He needed that orange juice just to subdue absolute need to subjugate Nick in his kitchen.

Instead he found that his Pilates routine gain an extra hour and those new resistance bands were really challenging.

Another banker’s box was dragged in with the first and Nick gently toed the front door shut. The deference to Monroe’s mood washed over him with the soothing sensation of a warm spring breeze. Nick might as well as lowered his head and whimpered. It made him feel apologetic. 

“So what’s all this?”

Nick placed on box on his coffee table and the other on the floor beside it. “Oh, well, Captain told everybody to go home and get some rest. I can’t rest.”

The box top was dropped unceremoniously to the ground as Nick began to sort out very large color photos of a murder scene. A hand drawn map labelled “Stu’s 24” was at the center with the photos going into piles according to the map in the middle. The area that must have been a cash register held highly detailed photographs of Stu – presumably – crumbled to the floor of institutional white linoleum with his blood splattered across the cigarette display to his back. Only a small pool that ran down Stu’s arm formed around the left hand while the propped right hand took on a grey hue as if eternally reaching for a pack of menthols. 

More shots at different angles revealed the damage inflicted. The rip to the throat caused by a bullet missing its mark and yet inflicting sufficient damage. The thankfully dark tee shirt showing only the tiniest of entry wounds thanks to the up close and personal powder burns. Monroe turned away before Stu’s back revealed how large that caliber actually was. 

Grimacing as he passed the table to head towards the kitchen, “Aw, man, really? I do not need this. Beer?”

Nick smiled sensing that whatever the irritation was between him and Monroe it had passed. “No thanks. I’m missing something and it’s here. Could you turn on the coffee pot?”

Echoing off the kitchen walls and muffled by the refrigerator door as Monroe searched out something for dinner, “I do not permit ground crap in this house.”

“It’d be just for me.”

“I can smell it.”

“You can smell the ground crap the neighbors make in the morning. How is this different?” Thanks to a rather revolting incident with a Jinnamuru Xunte, Nick could now hear the neighbors’ brewing coffee as well if he concentrated on it. He preferred not to, but on occasion the ability cued in on something without any sense of will whatsoever. It scared the hell out of him when a cat pawing at a garbage container distracted him from Wu’s approach at Stu’s crime scene. One minute it was all fur and kitty claws against industrial steel the next was the extremely loud snarky Wu. Not that Wu was actually talking all that loud – it was normal to everyone but Nick.

Hank had gotten a good laugh.

“It’s in my house.”

Nick huffed in frustration. Why, why did Monroe have to be picky about shit like this? Who cares if the beer or coffee is cheap? It gets the job done on a budget. He didn’t need handpicked coffee while riding an Andean mule or whatever was so special about Monroe’s coffee. Foldgers was fine and fresh grounds were always better than the recycled ones that made at least 36 cups of coffee at the station before someone complained enough to change it. “Monroe…” Nick heard the whine in his voice, “I’m gonna need more than what that French press makes.”

“Then make two batches.”

“You always complain that I waste your premium coffee.”

“I feel different about it today. Besides Rosalee gave us that stuff from Kona. It isn’t my favorite but it’s still good.”

You hate it. Nick left the comment unspoken. Rosalee and Nick had found an odd friendship based on finding out Monroe selective tastes in the world of coffee. She understood wine and could often steer Nick away from disaster while Nick already knew all of Monroe’s favorite micro brews. But coffee? It was still under contention. She had tried once more finding the Hawaiian blend quite good herself. 

It failed the Monroe test.

Oh he was nice about it telling her that it was “quite good”. Yet every morning he spent time grinding something that decidedly did not come from the Hawaiian bean bag. Honestly, you’d think Monroe didn’t know that Nick was a detective. Nick knew that whenever Monroe made coffee for him, Monroe foisted more of those Kona beans off knowing that he didn’t care. It was the only time the bag got smaller.

“Fine,” Nick huffed out as he opened the box holding the physical evidence of the case placing the items alongside the pictures. He wanted to set up on the dining room table. There was more space and the neighbors wouldn’t be able to see Nick examining bloody objects through the large picture window overlooking the front yard. However, dinner hadn’t been served and thanks to the couch incident Nick knew that he could never – under any circumstance including sickness – eat dinner on the couch. Popcorn, chips or other snacks were permitted under select circumstance as well as beverages but never dinner. So the table was off limits and by then Nick wouldn’t want to move. 

He figured it was a fair trade off. He brought in gruesome and human blood splatter bits and Monroe got to be as fussy as an eighty year old woman. It was a blessing the couch wasn’t covered in plastic. 

Tuning out the sounds of Monroe shuffling around the kitchen, Nick searched out that something that would give him a new lead. There was something here that would point a finger in the right direction but what? 

That something reared its head as Nick swore at the French press sometime around one in the morning. He hated the contraption and would have given just about anything for a simple 12 cup Black and Decker when lightning struck. Abandoning the French press before it died an early death, he flipped through the pictures confirming his wild thought. 

The last receipt of the day before the shooting was for a 20 ounce wild cherry Pepsi and a Hershey bar. The clerk hadn’t sold a cigarette pack. Instead on the counter break between the narrow shelves and the deeper shelves for the cigarette cartons was a list of banned customers. Could the clerk have reached for one of them? 

Wired on something greater than his failed attempt for a caffeine fix, Nick spread out photos and bits of paper evidence in search of that customer list. Or at the very least a picture of it.

At five a.m. on the dot, like every other morning, Monroe woke up without the need for an alarm clock. Those buzzing, ringing hateful machinations of the human mind had no place in his world right alongside digital clocks. Honestly it wasn’t that hard to read a clock. Then again, it wasn’t that hard to balance a checkbook, utilize a turn blinker or dispose of trash in a proper receptacle and yet people failed to do that too.

And Skalengecks. Lizards never seems to care much about cleanliness.

Finding his favorite loose fitting clothes Monroe headed downstairs for his morning ritual of Pilates only to discover that irony was a bitch. Just as Monroe was lamenting the cleanliness of others he discovered what Nick had done to his beautifully maintained home.

How?

And in a single night – scratch that a few hours.

It shouldn’t be possible.

And yet it was. The coffee table was littered with crime scene evidence and apparently it wasn’t big enough. His couch side tables have been moved to accommodate, in Nick’s mind surely, additional organization to the mess before it completely failed and spilled onto the floor. A cup of coffee with only the barest dregs was, thankfully, sitting on a coaster to the right side of the coffee table with a twin on the mantle. A salad plate was balanced dangerously on the mantle beside the second cup displaying a congealed bit of mayonnaise and bread crumbs. The items that side tables used to have on their surfaces were placed on the ground on their respective sides of the couch. The creator of this headache inducing mess was sprawled out on the couch with one leg dangling off the side of the couch and resting against the rug covered in his Oma’s hand knitted afghan.

Monroe took in a deep breath to calm his nerves and immediately regretted it. Nick hadn’t showered and by the scent it’s been more than 24 hours. A flash of red hazed over his sight and he moved quickly to the kitchen in search of one of Rosalee’s concoctions. Sadly, this is where Nick set up base camp number two. The French Press had been tortured in cruel and unspeakable ways and was most likely unusable at the moment. A trail of coffee bean grounds that would have made Hansel and Gretel proud extended from the bag to the grinder to the mutilated French Press. The center butcher block was littered in crumbs, tomato seeds, and more congealing mayonnaise. The crumbs also managed to find the floor. A cupboard door was left wide open along with the pull out drawer for the silverware. 

Placing it in the ignore-now-scream-later pile, Monroe reined in his strength and opened his medicinal cabinet without ripping it off its hinges. Knocking back the container labeled with a frowning emoticon with horns and teeth Monroe tried to forget what the liquid looked liked and tasted. Even as it slid down his throat unleashing a strong burst of mind numbing scent he could feel the floating bits that Rosalee advised it was better to not know about.

Letting it settle his mind helped Monroe realize two things. One was that Pilates wasn’t happening today and he walked around the in the opposite direction of Nick’s spectacular mess to jog back up the stairs. Retrieving his socks and running shoes Monroe figured a good long run through the woods might be a better idea. The fresh air may play on his instincts a bit but it was far better than day old Grimm. The second thing was that if he was going to make his appointment at eleven later on today he was going to play housemaid while he made some calls for parts.

By ten that morning Monroe felt like himself. He has returned from his lengthy run to find his living room in a semblance of Nick order. The cups and plates had been removed and the side tables replaced. His coffee table still bore the weight of a haphazard piling of papers into the banker’s boxes with additional papers stacked on top of the banker’s boxes. Monroe assumed that they no longer fit in the boxes as they had before Nick got his hands on them. 

But the real treat had been waiting in the kitchen. Nick, freshly showered, was attempting to reassemble the French Press with a bag of fresh bagels and a cup of coffee. 

“You know I hate this thing,” Nick huffed as he put down the parts to his mangled French Press. “Why can’t I have a regular coffee pot? There’s one in the trailer.”

Monroe smiled and fished out a bagel as he snagged the coffee cup meant for him. The scent of dark roast Guatemalan with just a touch of whole milk added to his good mood, “My house my rules. And besides…”

Nick shot him a sideways look.

“I’ve seen what you did to the coffee pot in the trailer. That’s a crime. Is it like a cop rule to abuse coffee? Like the cops and doughnuts thing?”

Selecting a bagel for himself, Nick gave a small smile of his own. Juliette had like to make the cop and doughnut joke as well. “I’ll bring it up at our next precinct meeting. In an effort to better serve the public we’ll be switching to infuriating coffee machines so we can have only the finest coffee handpicked by beautiful women.”

“Now who said anything about handpicked?”

Nick inhaled and chocked a bit on his coffee before laughing.

With hurricane Nick safely directed at police work once more, Monroe finished cleaning up the mess to his satisfaction. The living room was once more crumb free and his Oma’s afghan was running on the delicate cycle on the washing machine. Monroe was only glad that his eleven o’clock client, Beverly Dresden, was human. He’d fixed a grandfather clock for her before. It was a simple maintenance repair but she had been pleasant enough. 

The walnut stained wood had incased the six foot piece with modest scroll work and engravings along the edges. The trademarked pendulum was shiny brass. Both were standard fair for a grandfather clock and both has been lovingly cared for by Ms. Dresden. The real memorable piece of the clock has been the dials. They were more modern than they appeared. Roman numerals marked the hours in gothic black and it had the now standard three turning gears for each of the weights all in classic positioning; three, six and nine. But directly below the 12 was a wide arena gap that hugged the inner curves and almost touched below 1 and 11. Here was a display for the moon phase. The art done in medieval styles held the ever shifting man in the moon in brilliant gold and silver with black etching. 

It was beautiful.

Monroe had asked where she obtained such a piece thinking that maybe its twin or distant half-cousin might still be available for purchase. He would love to have those dials.

Sadly it was a one of a kind as most beautiful things are.

Still, he had worked in her house for only a few hours combing over every piece of the clock to ensure it was in proper working order. Ms. Dresden had only checked in on him a few times as she handled other things in the house. By the smells and sounds, she was running the laundry while cleaning out a dusty closet of indeterminate size. Monroe had learning long ago that the sheer amount of possessions one could fit into a closet did not dictate the closet’s size. Only the cleverness of the owner and their willingness to be a little haphazard with said belongings.

During the last hour she had offered him a cup tea since she was making a pot. It was a fragrant Chinese green tea with strong notes of Jasmine that Ms. Dresden called Dragon Pearl. It was her current favorite so she loved sharing it.

The soft mellowing scent of Jasmine washed in Monroe’s mind and made a note to pick some up. If Nick was going to be here any longer Monroe might enjoy having the strongly scented tea.

Today, however, Ms. Dresden was bringing a double dial clock that she had bought in an antique store. She wanted to bring to Monroe personally since it was a surprise gift. She wanted to make sure that there were no chances the intended recipient might see it or even get an idea of it before she was ready to give it. 

The doorbell chimed as Monroe made once last sweep of the front room. He had noticed some papers wedged into the cushions of the couch and pulled them free when the bell rang. Setting them on the coffee table absently he went to answer the door.

Ms. Dresden was perfectly on time to the minute. She smiled at Monroe letting her silvering hair to sway slightly from its simple shoulder length cut. An antiqued hair pin rested against the perfect center of the back of her head ensuring no stray wisps would slip free. It described her in so many ways. Although she was very pleasant to deal with Ms. Dresden was the epitome of “everything in its place”.

She greeted Monroe then explained that the clock was in the truck of her car. Straight down his walkway was a modest silver Honda with the truck lid popped open. She waited on the front steps as Monroe walked out to retrieve it before letting her inside. The car let off a cheerful beep as she wiped her feet and headed inside.

Walking ahead of her, Monroe had set the box containing the clock on the coffee table to open. Packed gingerly inside was a Waterbury Double Dial Calendar Clock. It was a hanging piece with ornate art deco images that Monroe placed roughly around the 1930’s. The original stain was likely walnut or something close to it but it also showed signs of aging where time had left its mark. The dials were a bit yellowed but not badly. The numbers for the topmost dial, the clock itself, were still a crisp black and fastened to the clock in a double rings of antiqued brass. Monroe smiled to himself well the brass was antiqued now. In its heyday it was probably a brilliant bright gold. The lower dial had a ring of numbers ranging from 1 to 31 with two long rectangles cut out at the “3” and “6” positions on a standard clock. On the right side was the month and on the left of the day of the week. The rollers for the month and weekday had suffered badly in time and were nearly unreadable. A small barometer was tucked underneath the second dial.

It was out of fashion in terms of modern preference. Gold and brass fittings were beyond passé, but Monroe was never one for fashion. 

He worked out the details for this clock. Did she wanted it repaired only? Restored? Monroe could do restoration work but it often ruined the value of the clock in its original condition. It depended on what the owner wanted – an original piece or a functional piece. He had removed the clock from its cardboard box to set it on his work table as he explained what he would do and how much he could repair.

With Ms. Dresden sampling some of his restoration work by looking at the clocks in his living room, Monroe excused himself into the kitchen to start a pot of tea. Setting out the supplies for an African rooibos, he heard a small gasp from the living room. It was a soft sound that only a Blutbad could notice.

Walking back into the room he saw Ms. Dresden holding the crumpled papers from the couch. The box the clock has arrived it was now placed in the perfect center of the coffee table. Monroe froze the doorway trying to think what those papers were. He had found them squished between the cushions and was going to toss them in a drawer for consideration after Ms. Dresden left. He hadn’t looked at them. 

But he feared what they were. With Nick’s murder mystery explosion and lack of any kind of recognizable organization, they were likely from the murder investigation. He only hoped that they were dull things like receipts, pictures of boot prints, or something very police talk coded. She shuffled one page to the next. The top had been a crime scene map in bird’s eye perspective. It noted ugly things like dead clerk here but it was only a map. The next was a wordy report with the word “Coroner” stamped across the top but contained complicated and medical jargon text that Monroe hoped Ms. Dresden didn’t know.

Not everyone was into CSI.

It was the last one that sunk Monroe’s carefully elated hopes. A close-up, 8x10, full color shot of the clerk’s bloody and shot body. It was so clear that Monroe could see where the blood was beginning to coagulate on the floor and spit sheen of saliva running out of an open dead mouth.

The papers dropped to the floor. The Coroner’s report hit first with the bundle stapled together but that damnable photo drifted in the air to float to the floor face up.

Ms. Dresden held a frail hand to her mouth letting out a soft “Oh my.” From across the room Monroe could hear her heart picking up its pace as she teetered near to fainting.

He rushed over to gently help Ms. Dresden onto the couch while he scrambled to gather up the offending papers. As with all rushed efforts, his usually nimble fingers were as useful as fat sausages and coordination was not a thing that could be obtained. The exercise looked more like a bad Benny Hill sketch than an effort to remove rather graphic material from a sweet grandmotherly-type lady.

Surrendering to his ineptitude at grace, he shoved the papers under the couch.

“Oh… oh my.” Ms. Dresden repeated like the world’s quietest broken record.

“I’m so sorry about that!” Monroe kneeled on the floor beside the couch and gave the offending papers another shove to go deeper under the couch for good measure. “Let me get that tea started.”

With her hand to her chest, Ms. Dresden looked around in bewilderment. “Thank you. I… I just…”

Yeah, I know thought Monroe. I’m dealing with a rather dense Grimm who like to violate the chain of custody on a regular basis. With the kettle on the stove, Monroe returned to check on her. All things considering she seem to be rebounding. However, his run of luck with clients finding Grimm related items was also flagging.

“I’m fine now. Just a bit of a shock is all.” She offered a warm smile but patted her hands in her lap in a bouncing motion that screamed I want to leave. Her eyes moved around the home searching out something that Monroe couldn’t even fathom.

“Again, I apologize,” Monroe started, “Nick isn’t the tidiest person.”

“Oh,” she responded with a bit of surprise. She peered closer to him and leaned forward as if in secrecy, “Good for you. I’m hoping he’s police?”

The kettle let out a shrill whistle distracting Monroe momentarily. As he busied himself in the kitchen putting together a tray, “Nick? Yeah he’s a detective. I guess I’ll have to run these by the station later so he doesn’t get in trouble for losing evidence.”

The rooibos paired well with some lemon scones Monroe had made earlier. He set the tray down and offered a delicate cup and saucer his great Aunt has saved or stolen out of Poland; the story varied depending on the relative that told it. Monroe had always loved the sprigs of pine and fine gold work that the set had.

“Don’t want anyone else stumbling over those, either.”

Ms. Dresden let out a cultured laugh. “I guess I just got my thrill for the day.”

Relieved couldn’t describe it. Monroe was never good at the sweet innocent thing but over obliging contrition was always in his wheelhouse. 

The double dial calendar clock was in for a full repair including replacing the worn out month and day of the week rollers. For a brief while everything seemed to reset in Monroe’s world. Nick was out hunting down whoever shot Stu and Monroe was fixated on a clock. His home was left unmarred by Nick’s coming and goings. Really he only saw the Grimm early in the morning for coffee – the French Press had to be replaced and Nick didn’t look the least bit sorry for it – and the evening for a quick dinner.

Sort of like the old days.

Only Nick slept over and used his shower.

Ok, so exactly like the old days.

The day arrived for Ms. Dresden to collect her clock. Monroe has a heck of time tracking down the dials, but Giles, the Mauzhertz who owned a junk shop that he called an antique shop, was rather resourceful. There was a bit of guilt knowing that the mouse would have pried the dials out of a functioning clock just to appease a Blutbad standing in his shop. That guilt was eased knowing that Giles had found dials in good condition and Monroe had paid for them without the fear induced discount.

The clock while not a perfect as it would have been in its hey-day was in exceptional shape with its inner workings the best they’d ever been. Monroe proudly presented it to Ms. Dresden who was very pleased with the result. 

That feeling deflated when it came to the final invoice. That sweet grandmotherly lady because a street haggler in an instant. 

Pointing to the replacement dials, “This seems a bit high.”

Monroe nodded, “Yes, there were more than expected. It was harder to find parts that matched the clock and were in acceptable condition. You can see…”

“It’s too much.”

“Rarer parts will cost more.”

She looked at him then glanced to the couch and placed her hand back to her chest. “I just don’t know. Even after,” her eyes going back to the couch, “having the life scared out of me.”

The snarkier side of Monroe chided that she was apparently still kicking and it was just one photo. But the writing could be easily read on the wall. He’d have to take a hit. He could argue that none of it was his fault but how well had that worked before?

Letting out a weary sigh, “I suppose I could deduct some labor costs for you.” But like hell it’s coming out of the dials. He adjusted the invoice and handed it back over to her. 

“Much better,” she smiled that little smile of hers that Monroe had once thought was warm, “will you take a check?”

As long as it doesn’t bounce, “Not a problem.”

As she painstakingly filled out of the check in lettering that should have been fonted, “You should tell your boyfriend to be more careful. Things like that could cause a lot more trouble.”

Monroe couldn’t help but feel like a child being scolded. So it was a natural response to reply, “I will.” After all, every time his mutti used that tone with him it was always yes, sure, I will, whatever it took to leave the kitchen and go back to terrorizing the local wildlife.

She even made him carry the clock out to her car for her.

Could he be a bigger doormat? Monroe slid down onto his couch and knowing exactly where his life jumped the tracks. It was usually wrapped in a worn black leather jacket that reeked of stale coffee, fast food, gun oil, and at least six other people’s bad body odor. It had big sweet doe-eyes that pleaded with Monroe to fold like a cheap suit and it had jumped into a gladiator ring just to save his hide. 

And Monroe was thoroughly screwed. 

And, oh hell, he’d just agreed that Nick was his boyfriend. This weird thing was beginning to burrow in deeper than it should.

He picked up his phone to call Rosalee. If anyone could help it was her. However that plan was quickly aborted by the noticeable scent of pizza making its way up the driveway. He didn’t know exactly how Nick opened the door but he walked in with two pizzas and a six pack of some beer hidden by the standard liquor store black plastic bag.

“Hey! Glad you’re home. I picked up dinner.”

Monroe’s though briefly flashed to the ingredients in his fridge but the thought of a no effort meal greatly appealed to him at the moment. He sent a quick text to Rosalee, ‘How long have you’ve known that I’m completed screwed?’

“Yup, and I’m making a dinner table exception tonight.”

Nick’s eyes widen as the pizza boxes hovered over the table, “Really? Was it that bad of a day?” The slight frown only enhancing that full lower lip.

“Not much to report,” Monroe dismissed. How could he explain that a stupid mistake cost him a few hundred dollars in labor? Nick would go all Super Grimm and try to make up the loss. And that could make Monroe feel worse.

Nick seemed to mull that over and Monroe knew that detective hadn’t missed a thing. “Ok,” Nick dragged out, “guess I’m glad I went to that place you like so much.”

“Goat cheese pizza,” Monroe could practically feel his tail wag. 

“For some god awful reason, yes,” Nick chuckled. “Goat cheese pizza, roma tomatoes, basil, and artichoke hearts.”

Monroe who hadn’t moved from the couch made a grabbing motion in the air and Nick handed over the pizza box. He set the now unveiled microbrew on the coffee table using the plastic bag like a coaster. Nick opened his box to reveal a combo pizza including the pepperoni.

With a mouthful of pizza Monroe eyed Nick, “Hey I wasn’t planning on sharing and I didn’t want that.” 

Nick produced a bottle opener from his keychain and popped open two bottles when Monroe’s phone buzzed. He spared the phone a passing glance to read, ‘Long enough! About time.’

Nick tried to give the phone a look as he settle into the couch and Monroe clicked the screen over to black. There was a brief moment when the inquisitive Nick ached to ask about the text, but Monroe just took the offered beer bottle and dived back into the pizza box.


	6. Skelton Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for the +1.

Who knew that Wesen rabbits could run so fast?

Well, Nick thought it was a rabbit. He hadn’t see it but for the barest of seconds before the creature bolted. Now running from the police isn’t necessarily a suspicious action. Even more so when the person running for their life happens to Wesen and the cop in question happens to be a Grimm.

Try explaining that Sergeant Franco, who, by the way, was already in pursuit as said Wesen vaulted over a table full of junk that was unconvincingly labeled antique. At least in Nick’s opinion it was junk. He was pretty sure the weird white vase with a grapes on the vine motif was only suitable as target practice. The table tipped over and crashed causing its wares to become junk for certain as they shattered.

Franco circled around the table crushing any surviving knick-knacks. Nick spared a look to Hank. A time worn dialogue that required no verbal language exchanged between them and they set off after the pair.

As they cornered sharply avoiding something that could only be described as rusting farm equipment, Hank called out, “Is it?”

“Yeah.”

Hank huffed and picked up the pace just in time to see that Franco has cornered the rabbit and it was pleading with him. 

“I’ll hang back.”

Hank nodded as Nick side stepped in order to see his partner and fellow officer, but disguise himself from the freaked out Wesen. He watched the exchange as the rabbit was cuffed and Franco called in the subject’s information for dispatch to run. Given that the situation was under control, Nick let himself take in the tent he was hiding in. It was a weekend at the flea market. This tent, like so many others, seemed to be full of the same beaten, dented, rusted crap that all of the others had. Like the city residents universally agreed that the crap in grandma’s attic actually had value.

Nick briefly flashed to some of Monroe favorite shows and blamed the HGTV.

But not far from his head was some sort of clock in the shape of a spear point in a jar. It was weird. It looked old. It looked small enough that Nick could carry in back to the car in one piece.

Monroe would love it.

Hearing the radio crackle that the rabbit was wanted for robbery, likely purse napping, and seeing Franco haul the guy to his feet, Nick knew this encounter was all wrapped up.

“Um, hey,” Nick asked the kid rearranging those creepy Hummel figures that he will forever associate with murdering, kidnapping mailman. “How much?”

The kid shrugged and reeked of marijuana, “Dunno?” He looked over to the jar clock and spotted Nick as an officer, “500?”

Nick shot the kid a look, “Do I need to run you through dispatch?”

“100?”

“How about 50 and you hand over a bag with it?”

“Yeah… ok.”

Hank kept glaring at the brown package seat belted in the back row through the rear view mirror. How could this be happening? Once Franco and he had Allen Ferrell, otherwise known as some kind of Wesen, in the back of Franco’s marked car, Nick appeared with that thing. Never mind that he ditched his partner to buy said thing and left him with whatever it was Wesen, but…!

“Do I need to drive?” Nick’s question carried just enough sass that Hank just wasn’t having it today.

“What’s happening to you?”

“Mostly fear of a rear end collision.”

Hank huffed and shook his head, before glancing at the bag again, “You bought a clock.”

“And?”

“Allow me to clarify then. You bought a nasty old clock that no one in their right mind would want except a scruffy mountain man.”

“I repeat. And?”

“You ran off after…”

“Ran off!” Nick gaped at Hank, “What am I? Four?”

“Fine,” Hank gritted out, “you disappeared after we cuffed whatever Ferrell was and bought a gift. You only do that when you’re getting serious.”

“Serious about who?”

“Well, seeing as how there’s a nasty old clock in the backseat, I’d say you know who.”

Nick left out a snort and turned to look out the window. They were closing in on the precinct and he didn’t want to have this conversation. It was just a clock. Monroe had been having a run of bad luck. He didn’t say anything about it but Nick felt guilty. He was trying to be less trying on the Blutbad. He knew about Rosalee’s concoctions when he went looking for aspirin on night and saw the little bottles with cute emoticons on them. They ranged from upset to full on rage mode.

Nick didn’t know how to help.

So the clock… the clock was a peace offering. 

A small frown found its way to Nick’s face. What if it was junk? It would be just his style to try to do something nice only to discover that his choice was far beyond wrong. And it happened with Monroe more than anyone. Bad wine choice? Been there. Having to donate his favorite red hoodie? That happened too.

It seemed that whatever Nick’s taste was in objects Monroe had the exact opposite.

“It happened with Juliette.”

“Let it drop.”

“I’m trying to, but then there’s that,” Hank gestured with his thumb to the backseat. “I don’t want you mopey again.”

Crossing his arms and slumping into the seat, “Jeez, sorry I’m such an inconvenience.”

“You are, but I love you anyways. And you cannot live with me – ever.”

Nick rolled his eyes as the car came to a stop. He hopped out and unlocked the seat to retrieve the gift he was now questioning.

Hank stood next to the car grinning as he watched Nick, “Just saying, most guys can find an apartment even in Portland after a year.”

Nick let the retort die silently. It was just a gift. He wasn’t out shopping for rings or matching linens. It was just a rusty, old, weird looking clock that was just old and weird enough that he thought Monroe would like it. Who knows it could be a hunk of rusted metal? Hopefully Monroe would see the gesture behind it.

Besides arguing with Hank was often a fruitless venture. Hank loved to rile him up.

Taking Nick’s silence as a surrender, “Now what? Worried that hunk of crap is crap?”

“No,” Nick spat back. They’ve been partners for far too long. The weird mindreading ability was handy in the field and frankly getting creepy during the off hours. 

“And that means yes.”

“You know sometimes this,” Nick gestured between them, “is just annoying.”

“No, it isn’t. It allows me know when to cover for all your creature features. And if he hates that hunk of crap like he does cheap beer,” Hank clapped a firm hand on Nick’s shoulder, “I’ll help you actually try to find an apartment.”

Nick shrugged it off with a whatever but gave Hank a grin back.

“Now go home to mountain man.”

Nick just flipped him off as he headed over to his car.

He arrived home to the scent of some vegetarian delight. He quietly unlocked the door, pushed it open just wide enough to slip through and avoid the squeak as he tried to sneak into the house. Nick hoped that the smell of whatever dinner was would be distracting enough for Monroe.

“Nick?”

No luck. “Uh, yeah? Just going to take a quick shower and be back down.” Please, please buy that.

“Don’t bother. I can already smell the Willahara on you and the lasagna is ready.” Monroe walked over to the entry way to see Nick holding something in a brown bag. The wild mushrooms in the lasagna had a lovely earthy scent. He prayed Nick didn’t want him to sniff some god awful thing to take that away.

Stuck holding the thing and torn between hiding it forever and giving it to Monroe Nick opted for the gut move. It usually worked out, “Yeah, sorry about that, but it’s mostly second-hand?”

Wiping hands with the dishtowel, “I know. Hank seemed to have the honor of full bodied contact.” And it doesn’t bother Monroe in the slightest that Nick has long lost even the faintest traces of Juliette but Hank is always hanging off of him. No, not a problem at all.

Should have left Hank to the Hexenbiest.

With nothing more forthcoming, Monroe began to worry. Nick never hesitated to toss the question of the day at him. “So should I ask what’s in the bag or can I sniff it after dinner. Wait. How bad is it? Will I keep dinner down?”

Because Monroe could probably decapitate a guy and toss the bloody thing away. But something on the level of Skalengeck might make him gag on perfectly exceptional foods.

“Oh, no. It’s not something I need identified.” Nick moved over to the coffee table to place the bag down gently. “We chased the Willa…what-a”

“Willahara. A rabbit?”

“Yeah. We chased him through the flea market…”

Monroe winced. Untold collectible and antiques had met their doom today.

“And after Franco and Hank cornered him I hung back. He was spooked enough. But I saw this while I was sidelined and I dunno…”

Nick shifted his weight a bit like a nervous seven year old who was asked about a broken lamp. Tossing the towel over his shoulder Monroe moved to open the wrapped item. He pulled out a skeleton clock that was in desperate need of repair by the look of it.

“So, yeah, I saw that clock in a jar thing and thought maybe you’d like it.”

Nick had moved from seven year old to proud kitten bringing home some dead mutilated mouse like a prize.

However, it might be…

Monroe looked at the brass skeleton inside. The tiny brass gears growing in size to make a lovely albeit unusual pyramid design. The dial at the base held the numerical dial with small simple black hands. Carefully setting the glass dome aside, he walked over to his worktable to locate the cleanser. It was a simple solution of mostly lemon juice to carefully peel back the tarnish without damaging the underlying objects. 

There it was. It would need more cleaning, but he could make out “Bury” and “Edmunds” on the plate above the rosewood base in dire need of oiling. 

“Oh, wow.”

Nick, curious since Monroe went silent, tried to figure out what he was looking at. At the very least, the clock was a good gift. Monroe had already wandered over to his work table to look more closely at. If it was a hunk of crap as Hank has put it, Monroe would pull the same stunt he did with Rosalee’s coffee. He talk about how great it is and then move onto something else to distract giver from his less than excited response. Then whatever it was would disappear and Nick would never see it again.

The clock in the jar at least intrigued Monroe and Nick watched as he didn’t even react to the soft beeping of the oven timer. Heading over into the kitchen to remove the lasagna before it burnt to death, Nick smiled at a gift actually well received. It didn’t happen often and he savored the idea of finding something that the exceptional picky Monroe liked. Setting the glass tray onto the counter top, making sure that the pads were underneath to protect the counter from the heat – god forbid he forgot those – Nick walked back into the living room to see Monroe still engaged with the clock.

“Is it okay?”

Monroe looked up wearing those ridiculous goggles that made his eyes looked buggy, “Is it okay? Do you know what this is?”

“According to Hank a nasty old clock.”

“He never had any taste.” 

Nick wanted to laugh. He was quite certain Monroe hadn’t meant for that to slip.

“This,” Monroe cradled the skeleton like a newborn, “is a circa 1850, British Skelton Clock designed by Pace and Edmunds. One just like this was on display in the 1851 Great Exhibition!”

“So I got a good deal?”

“Oh, if I could find original parts! This could be worth thousands if it was done right.”

Nick bit his lower lip, “It’s broken?” Damn there was that rain on his parade.

“Not badly. Mostly appears to need disassembly and cleaning to know for sure. Heck, it might work as is if chain isn’t badly worn…” Monroe set the tarnished piece down on his worktable ready to be fully inspected tomorrow morning. “This is a thing of beauty, why…” Monroe froze for a moment, “dinner!”

He bolted into the kitchen fully expecting the sitcom plume of black smoke emanating from his oven. The little dish towel hanging from his shoulder drifted onto the floor of the living room in his haste. Instead, the lasagna was perfect. Cooling to a serving temperature and sitting on protective heat pads.

Monroe peaked back into the living room, “What happened? Were you cursed? Can you be cursed nicely?”

Nick laughed at that, “What?”

“Dinner is unburnt along with my counter. You bought dinner not too long ago from a place I adore and picked my favorite pizza. Now the skeleton clock. What gives?”

Nick picked a spot on the floor for a moment and stared hard to gather a coherent response. What was that earlier? Go with his gut – so here goes nothing. “You’ve been having a bit of bad luck with,” Nick gestured to the clock repair table, “your business. And..”

“Horology,” Monroe corrected.

“Huh”

“The art of repair, collecting or having an interest in clocks and their interworking is called horology. I would be a horologist.” Monroe puffed his chest a bit at the title. 

“Right, that. And I know that my living here hasn’t always been easy. I’ve seen the emoticon bottles.”

Monroe flushed a little at that. 

“So this was a just a thank you.”

“Oh,” Monroe had to admit he was hoping for just a touch more but it was a nice gesture.

Nick decided to take the proverbial plunge, “I also wanted you to like it.”

“Oh?”

“Somewhere between now and…”

“You trespassing in my yard?”

“I was following a lead.”

“Into my backyard, without a warrant.”

“You jumped through a glass window and made me pay for it.”

“I gave you good beer. Hell, I’ve been giving you good beer since! And food.”

“Yeah, looking back I was spending more time here than in my own home.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I called you more too.” 

Monroe nodded his head with a raise of both eyebrows, “yup.”

“Almost felt like moving it was an obvious next step.”

It was Monroe’s turn to fidget. “I meant when I said I’m terrible at relationships.”

“And yet,” Nick held up his hands as to say here we are.

“I like things a certain way.”

“I’ll forget plans or get carried away in an investigation.”

“I’ve been told I’m a ‘neat-freak’.”

“I told you that. And you called me a mess.”

“A hot mess. I may have PTSD from some of the all-nighters you’ve pulled.”

“I still want a Black and Decker coffee pot. I hate the French Press.”

“It hates you too. Especially after what you did to the last one. I’ll relent if there isn’t a digital clock.”

“No timer. Not a problem. So do you?”

“Let’s not name it just yet.”

Nick nodded. “Dinner?”

“I’ll pick the wine.” Monroe turned to select a red French granache he’d been saving. He’d have to call Rosalee later. The Fuchsbau would love this.

Nick set out the plates and wondered how he was going to explain this to Hank without running commentary.


End file.
